


Moonshadow

by inkstiel (Theconsultingdetective)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1960s culture, 1980s culture, Angst, Blanket Forts, Case Fic, Cat Stevens - Freeform, Childhood Friends, Cigarette Smoking, Curses, Dean in Panties, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Dom!Cas, Drug Use, Endverse, Endverse!Cas, Fire, First Kiss, Happy Ending, It's a Terrible Life!verse, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Overdose, Rimming, Sleepovers, Soldier!Cas, Soldier!Dean, Sub!Dean, Vietnam War, Violence, Witches, blowjob, confession of love, gun use, kid!verse, soldier!Benny, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theconsultingdetective/pseuds/inkstiel
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy case.Gross, but easy--they were just hunting a witch, after all.It turns out to be anything but. Thanks to the witch trying to teach Dean a lesson, a straightforward hunt turns into a trip through torturous realities, where Dean gets a taste of what he won't admit he wants most--Cas. No matter what he does, Dean is trapped in a loop of losing his angel--his friend--each ending crueler than the last. Dean waits for the nightmare to end, but the witch seems to enjoy watching him fall apart over and over.Maybe there's no waking up from this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank: my beta, [fanforfanatic](fanforfanatic.tumblr.com), who I love so, so much, and all of the firechat, where this fic was born and raised, [bountyhuntergirl](bountyhuntergirl.tumblr.com), my best friend and guide, and my amazingly talented artist, [usarechan](usarechan.tumblr.com). You can find the art for this fic [here](http://usarechan.tumblr.com/post/167824291119/my-entry-for-beecoveredcas-amazing-fic)\--it's beautiful, and I absolutely love it!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this fic! Don't worry; the people who die don't stay dead for long (they never do; this is Supernatural, after all.) Comments and kudos are welcome. S/o to all the other DCBB 2017 participants--we rock, guys!

They’ve been chasing the same witch for days, zigzagging the country, burning up miles of highway and gallons of gas in search of her. 

Sam picked up the case from the obits in Kingsport, TN, “Local Man Wins Lottery, Hit By Bank Truck Same Day”.

“There’s a Alanis Morissette joke in there somewhere,” Dean had said, although now, seven deaths and 2,410 miles later, he isn’t so quick to tease.

No, now, in Winnemucca, Nevada, Dean is pissed. He was over this “death by irony” schtick three states ago, over this bitch who thinks she’s some kind of arbiter of cosmic justice.

“Don’t you wanna find a motel?” Sam suggests once they make town. “Get a solid 6 hours before we charge back into battle?”

“No,” Dean snaps, rubbing sleep out of one eye. “I want a drink, and then I wanna off this sonuvabitch.” Sam doesn’t argue; he’d be lying if he said he couldn’t use a drink himself.

~*~

A few miles later, Dean whips the Impala into the parking lot of Duke’s Brews and BBQ, pulls the car into a spacious spot, and heads inside.

He slides up to the counter, perching next to Sam on a tall stool, and orders a beer. There’s a pool game going on in the corner, and across the room, a woman in a red and white gingham shirt tied high around her waist, and jean shorts that barely pass for clothes, flirts with a guy who’s still playing t-ball to her major league.

At first, it occurs to Dean to go give it a shot himself--Tubby over there seems to be doing pretty good, if her giggling and pawing at his chest is any indication. Then, the more he looks, the more he thinks, the more he realizes; that’s not just off, that’s weird. Like, he and Sam’s kinda weird.

“Be right back,” he tells his brother, already sliding off the stool, figuring he should investigate further in case she’s just got some serious beer goggles or Tubby somehow has a sparkling personality.

“Hey,” he greets, raising his beer. They both raise theirs and smiled back, the woman still with one hand on Tubby’s chest. “Mind if I cut in?” he asks the big guy, who just steps back like a man entranced.

Yeah, this is weird. Definitely his weird.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks the woman, pouring on the charm.

“Oh, honey,” she giggles, her accent unplaceable but friendly, the image of harmless charm. “You’re sweet, but you don’t gotta do that. Let’s just go outside ‘n talk.” Dean nods, keeping up appearances with a big smile, and lets the woman lead him outside.

~*~

As soon as they’re out of earshot of the bar, the doors swinging closed, she turns to him.

“So you caught up to me.” The accent is gone, and with it, any semblance of flirtation; Dean knew that guy’s luck was too good to be true.

“Looks like it,” he says, letting her walk ahead of him. “Maybe you should be a little more subtle next time. Not that there’s gonna _be_ a next time.” He reaches for his gun, tucked in the waistband of his pants, and--

 _Shit._ He tries not to show it, but damn, she’s quick.

“Looks like you showed up half-cocked,” she teases, Dean firing back a glare that could peel paint. “Well, we’ve all done _that_ before, but you don’t have any backup, do you? Where’s your big, strong brother? Or did you think you could take care of me yourself?”

“Oh, he’s coming,” Dean lies easily, trying not to give away his nerves. “Though you’re still a one man job, whether you like it or not.” She scoffs.

“So no big brother to save the day...how about that angel, huh? Your boyfriend?”

Dean has to hide his surprise; how could she know about Cas? Since when did witches do their research? He doesn’t show anything, though, keeps his face lax as they circle each other in the parking lot. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“Aw. Protecting your lover, that’s sweet.”

He bristles; why he takes it so hard, he’s not sure. “I’m not like that, we’re just--”

She pouts her lower lip out, looks at him through her lashes. “But he’s devoted to you,” the witch prods. “Madly in love. Why, all you’d have to do right now is pray to him and I’m sure he’d come right away.” Her lips curl into a grin. “You _can_ make the angel _come_ , Dean, can’t you?”

“We’re not like that,” Dean half-repeats, hackles rising. “I don’t love him. We’re just friends.”

She hums. “Still in denial, huh?”

“There’s nothing to deny. Cas and me, there’s nothing between us,” he presses certainly, more certain than he feels. The witch raises one manicured eyebrow.

“Really? Nothing?” Dean shakes his head.

“We’re just friends. I don’t love him,” he says again, thinking it a third time to himself, _I don’t love him._

“So you don’t need him?” she asks, casual. “You could live without him?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean warns, his voice a dangerous growl. “I might not have my gun, but if you lay a finger on him, so help me God, you bitch, I will tear you apart.” She laughs.

“Oh, don’t you worry. I won’t lay a finger on the Cas _you_ know—and love,” she says, stepping closer to Dean. “But I think it’s time you learn how much he means to you. It’s time you let yourself have what you _really_ want, Dean.”

She leans in close, extends a hand, palm up, and, before Dean can push her away, blows some kind of fine powder into his face. He does everything he can not to inhale the weird, greyish-blue stuff, but it’s no use. As soon as it touches his skin, his knees weaken, his body sways, and, as if falling in slow motion, he collapses gently onto the pavement outside of the bar, in the middle of the parking lot.

The witch leans over him, grinning.

“Until next time, angel boy,” she giggles, the godforsaken accent back (although now, the _last_ thing it does is make Dean feel comfortable).

Dean’s sight and hearing blur into greys and blacks as her high heels _snick-snick-snick_ away and the door to the bar opens with a single chime, Sam running over to him. His last conscious thought isn’t of his brother, though, it wasn’t even of the witch; it’s of Cas, the man suddenly at the crux of this whole thing, and of what the witch’s curse could have meant.


	2. Chapter 2

When Dean lifts his head again, how much later he doesn’t know, it is from a sleek wooden desk in a spacious corner office that still smells like paint and lacquer. The room isn’t entirely unfamiliar, though; even the way the light filters through the slatted blinds on the window gives Dean the vaguest sense of deja vu.

He stands up from the rolling chair he’d been sitting in, glances around the darkened room; there’s a computer and a laptop on his desk, a figurine that says “Sandover Bridge & Iron,” and a travel mug with some weird green liquid in it. There’s a glass pane in the office door which reads, etched in glass, “Dean Smith.”

Oh.

_Oh._

That fucking bitch.

He hurries towards the door, but just as he turns the handle, it’s pushed open, and Dean takes a big step back, planting his feet, ready to face whatever ghost or nasty or big bad awaits on the other side of it.

The stranger steps inside, head of dark, mussed hair bowed over some papers, dressed sharply in a tailored slate grey suit and black Oxfords that glint in the light pouring in from the bustling hallway.

“Mr. Smith,” he says, and his voice is familiar too, but Dean doesn’t remember it from this universe; it almost sounds like _Cas_. He lifts his head, steps further into the room, and eases the door closed after himself. “I had a question about the numbers you sent me yesterday, according to your predictions--”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts. Cas raises his eyebrows, making himself comfortable in the office as he heads over to Dean’s desk.

“Very casual all of a sudden,” Cas teases. “I think the most informal thing you’ve ever called me is ‘sir.’” He glances up at the overhead lights. “Why are you working in the dark?”

Dean, absolutely bewildered and still standing in the middle of the room, heads dutifully over to the light and flips it on. “Come on, man,” he insists, going back to the desk where Cas stands. “Quit messin’ around, we gotta get the hell out of here. Sam--”

“Wesson, from IT?” Cas finishes, watching Dean with an air of amused confusion. “Yes, what about him?”

Dean’s brain runs a mile a minute; what was he supposed to do, here? Tell Cas what was going on, or would that have some horrible repercussion, create some universe-collapsing paradox that strands him as an office drone forever?

“...Nothing,” Dean decides, playing it safe. “I’m sorry, haven’t had my--” his eyes fall on the travel mug on his desk, “--smoothie, this morning. Anyway, you wanted to talk about this month’s numbers?” Cas hums and nods like it’s completely normal for someone to excuse bizarre behaviour with a lack of some green, gritty-looking hell drink, taking a seat on Dean’s desk.

“I did,” he agrees. “Specifically about your predictions for next month, how you arrived at them. They’re excellent, don’t get me wrong, I’m just concerned about your people's ability to sell that volume of product.”

 _Oh, yeah. Director of Sales and Marketing. Right._ Dean shrugs, returning to his rolling chair.

“I believe in my department,” he says, relying almost exclusively on platitudes to get through the conversation. “Don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Cas agrees, sliding his eyes over to Dean. “I have extensive faith in you, Mr. Smith.” He cuts a sharp figure in his well-fitting suit, and when Dean meets his blue eyes he can’t help but feel a little pang of something in his gut. Maybe that was what the witch was talking about.

“Well,” Cas sighs. “If you’re confident, I don’t suppose I have much room to argue. But if these numbers are exaggerated, it’s on your head, Mr. Smith. Don’t be surprised if you see some degree of punishment as a result.”

Dean nods, feeling an unwelcome flush creep up his spine.

Cas smiles, somehow knowingly. “I’ll be down the hall, should you need anything,” he says. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Anytime,” Dean manages after a clear of his throat, falling back in his chair as soon as Cas was out the door. He opens the laptop, his laptop, he figures, catches a glimpse of himself in the darkened screen, _holy fuck his hair_ , and types “castiel sandover” into the search bar. Results flood in.

 _Castiel J. Novak Named CFO of Sandover_ from the New York Times.

 _40 Under 40: Castiel Novak_ from Forbes.

 _Brains and Beauty: CJ Novak has the Whole Package_ from Cosmopolitan, of all places. Dean tries to argue with that one, but, well…

He tries his own name next, “dean smith sandover”. The first result from the Chicago Tribune proclaiming, _Dean Smith Rises to Director of Sales and Marketing at Sandover Corp._

“Stanford grad Dean Robert Smith was recently named Sandover Bridge & Iron’s Director of Sales and Marketing. This new position marks an increase in Smith’s pay bracket, a rise in visibility, and, of course, increased responsibility.

CFO Castiel J. Novak believes in the competence and capability of his newly promoted employee. ‘Dean Smith is a promising new figure in the world of marketing and sales. I’m excited to see what great work he can do for us and for our company.’”

The article went on to feature Dean’s family, his parents, Bobby Singer and Ellen Singer-Harvelle, his sister, Jo, his youth in Kansas, apparently he’d even given an interview.

“‘I’m looking forward to the new expectations and challenges this position will bring,’ said Smith. ‘I see every job I undertake as a change to grow and learn, and I hope…’” Dean closes the tab, annoyed at how this weird, corporate version of himself sounds, and stands back up to poke around the building.

He goes down to the IT room first, looking for Sam in that butter-yellow uniform shirt. His cubicle neighbour tells him he’s on paternity leave. _Good for him_ , Dean thinks.  _A_ _t least someone’s happy_.

~*~

Dean pitstops at a vending machine, grabs himself a Red Bull and a Baby Ruth, (he finds $55 in his wallet, Mr. Smith is fucking loaded by his standards) and hops the elevator to his floor.

It stops on the lobby, and who should step on but Cas, carrying takeout from Panera.

“Mr. Smith,” he says cordially, smiling as he stands next to Dean.

“Mr. Novak,” Dean replies, mirroring his tone. His eyes are straight ahead, but in the reflection of the elevator doors he can see Cas, standing there next to him, staring at him like he wants to burn holes through his navy blue suit.

“C’n I help you?” he asks, half-turning to face Cas.

“I hope so,” Cas replies. “You’re not married, Mr. Smith?” Dean ventures a guess on behalf of his alter-ego and shrugs.

“Nah. I don’t settle down too good, not really in my blood. Uh...why?” Cas hums, doesn’t answer.

“No partners?”

Dean pauses. “Are you tryin’a seduce me, Mr. Novak?” he asks, raising one eyebrow. His brain picks through what he knows to try and make sense of this weird tangent, but he comes up with more questions than answers: how did this have to do with the witch? What was he doing here? How close was this to what his Cas wanted, and, most menacing to answer, what was it that _he_ wanted? He knew what he was programmed to want, what he expected himself to say, but how accurate was that first-blush reaction?

“I’d like to suggest an...arrangement,” Cas answers finally.

“So that’s a yes?” Dean ventures (hopefully, almost). The elevator dings, and Cas steps out.

“Follow me to my office.”

Dean gulps, nods, follows him like a lost lamb, past the secretary and his office to Cas’, which is perched in another corner.

“You find me attractive, don’t you, Dean?” he asks cooly, easing the office door closed.

“I...”

“Yes, or no, Dean?” Cas says, firm and even.

“Yes,” Dean rushes out, as if his courage will evaporate if he doesn’t say it then and there. Cas hangs his blazer over the back of his chair, humming, smug.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing at one of the chairs across from the desk. Dean cleared his throat, sitting down, smoothing his hands down the front of his slacks. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.” Dean pauses.

“How’s that?” Cas smiles, not showing his gums, something feline and smooth about it.

“You never meet my eyes, Dean,” he says instead, still standing on the other side of the desk. “Why is that?”

Dean cocks a shoulder. “Hadn’t really thought about it, I guess,” he admits.

“Does it make you uncomfortable, that I stare at you?” Cas asks, seeming to really care.

“No,” Dean replied, honestly. “I just don’t get why you do it.”

“Because, Dean,” Cas says plainly. “You are beautiful. And I enjoy beauty.” Dean turns pink, rubbing the back of his neck, and looks down.

“Nah,” Dean dismisses. “I ain’t all that.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Dean is silent.

“You think too much, Dean,” Cas states, rolling Dean’s name off of his tongue, tasting every letter. “I’d like to get you out of your mind for a while.” A pleasant chill runs through Dean’s body at the thought; he doesn’t know exactly what Cas means, sure, but somewhere in those words are a promise Dean prays he keeps.

“Care to join me in the break room?” Cas suggests with that same curving, sharp smile. Dean doesn’t speak, just nods mutely, rising from his chair and following his boss out and down the hall.

Cas ushers him into the break room, hand on the small of his back sending waves of goosebumps over his skin.

“Get comfortable,” he says. Dean nods, not speaking, because you need breath to speak, and there’s no fucking way Dean is breathing right then, so close to Cas, ( _but it’s not even his Cas, it’s just a reflection of Cas, oh god he’s going to have his first time with Cas and it’s not even going to be real, this Cas isn’t real, even he’s not quite real—--_ )

He leans back against the counter that runs along one wall, well-stocked with fancy coffee makers and shiny, stainless steel microwaves, fidgeting his toes in his shoes. He stares down at his feet, watching as Cas’ black oxfords enter his vision to stand toe to toe with him, crowding into his space, demanding his attention.

Cas takes his jaw in one hand like it’s nothing, like he’s a toy, tips his head up, kisses him, simultaneously grounding him in his body and letting him float away. He lets his mouth open, trying to draw a line between what Cas means to him and what this is, just sex in a break room in a world that isn’t real, and Cas slides his tongue into his mouth, letting Dean tug him close with grasping hands.

“Take off your tie,” Cas says, leaning back, voice disarmingly steady. “And your pants.”

Dean does as he’s was told, unbuttons his pants to find silky red panties underneath them (the shade matched his suspenders, he had to give himself some style points for that). He hasn’t worn panties since that time with Rhonda Hurley, hardly even thinks about them unless he’s thinking about them on Cas. The ones he’s wearing are so soft, and he’s already so hard that they stretch tight around him, so sensitive that every brush makes his whole body sing.

“I thought so,” Cas says, pleased, the smug motherfucker. “Unbutton your shirt.”

“This feels a little out of order.”

“Dean, I’m waiting.” Dean nods again, swallows hard, opens the front of his shirt one button at a time with trembling fingers.

“You’re nervous,” Cas says, more like an observation than anything else.

“I guess,” Dean chokes out. “I guess, yeah.” Cas hums.

“Nervous about…?” Dean turns his head down, pulls his eyes away.

“This. You. I dunno.” Cas frowns, eyes narrowing.

“Up on the table,” he says finally, certainly. “Let’s get you out of your head for a while.” Dean is silent, unsure, but he obeys anyway (and if he’s already planning his escape, well, no one has to know that).

He climbs onto the high table and sits along the edge as Cas nudges between his legs and kisses him. He kisses him for a long time, kisses him like they have nowhere else to be, so hard that Dean doesn’t have the presence of mind to worry about what all this means.

His muscles loosen under Cas’ fingers, which wrap like a poisonous promise around the back of his neck and his thigh.

This Cas doesn’t know what this moment means for Dean, the first kiss with his angel, the first touch of the man he’s been dying for for years. In that moment, he admits to himself—grudgingly, maybe, and with half a dozen caveats—that he feels something for Cas, what that is he still doesn’t know. As he gets tangled up in his own mind, Cas’ fingernails bite at his skin again and he falls as lax as ever.

“Get all the way up, on your knees,” Cas pushes, leaning back, and wipes away a strand of spit from his mouth with as little decorum as Dean has ever seen out of the guy. “Ass in the air, on your knees. Wrists behind your back.”

“You should take something off, too,” Dean says instead of moving, staring at him, one hand wrapped in the fabric of his button-down.

“You should be so lucky,” Cas replies through his teeth, and Dean’s mind flies immediately back to the time Cas slammed him up against the wall in that dirty alleyway, how hard he’d been at that moment, how Cas’ eyes had gone wide when he felt the telltale hot line of Dean’s cock press against his leg. Dean remembers just how many times that moment flashed in front of him, unbidden, on nights in the shower, when Sam’s out on a supply run and Dean’s got nothing but miles of time and those blue eyes on his mind.

“Though,” Cas says, “perhaps I will take something off.”

Dean thrills at the thought, but instead of reaching for his shirt buttons or, god forbid, for his belt, Cas reaches for his tie, pulls it off in one smooth motion, wraps it twice around itself and raises an expectant eyebrow at Dean.

“You know I don’t like repeating myself, Mr. Smith. On the table, on your knees. Now.”

There’s something about that implicit threat that makes Dean scramble to comply, perching at the edge of the table with his forehead pressed against the dark wood in a moment’s notice.

“You get so tied up in your mind, Dean,” Cas hums from behind him, from somewhere, Dean’s not sure. “I think it’s time to tie you up in something else.”

Dean feels the silky softness of the tie slide underneath his wrists, which are just as Cas asked—he’s not pushing his luck any more—crossed at the base of his back. They’re tied together in a simple shoelace-style knot. Dean knows just what to do to get out of them, and it’s that simple fact that keeps him from panicking.

He lets his eyes close, toes flexing and curling with eagerness and anxiousness. He feels the leg band of his deep red panties pull away from his body, bites down on his lower lip, anticipating the snap of the elastic against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. It’s a long moment before the sting comes, almost long enough that he would have forgotten about it if it was an instant longer.  He gasps a little, clenches a fist, hears Cas sigh a laugh from behind him.

“Do you think you’re ready to go on?” Cas asks evenly, a hint of a tease to his voice, running a finger under the waistband of Dean’s panties, hooking it, dragging them down slowly, slowly. “I’m not asking for my health.”

“Y—yeah,” Dean agrees, forehead against the table.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Yes, Cas.”

“Good,” Cas nods, and in one fluid motion, yanks Dean’s underwear down, just enough to reveal his ass to the cool air.

“You are as beautiful as I could’ve imagined,” Cas says frankly. “Look at you, Dean.” Dean makes a little dismissive noise in his throat,  uncomfortable under the praise.

“Ain’t you gonna touch me?” he grumbles, although it comes out closer to a plea than a question.

“Eventually,” Cas says. “As long as you’re patient.”

He spreads Dean’s cheeks apart, drags a thumb along his pink, untouched pucker. Dean returns it with a little gasp, almost surprised at how good it feels, just as surprised at the small noise he made.

“You _like_ that,” Cas teases from behind him, Dean’s hands fidgeting in their bonds. “Let’s see what else you like.”

Another finger comes back, this one slick and warm, drags down that same path before suddenly dipping inside. It tears a sound from Dean’s core, makes him arch and push his body down around the finger.  As quickly as the fullness arrived, it’s gone again, and his hole tenses, tightens, winking and flexing of its own accord around nothing, just as Dean imagines it would do around Cas’ cock, now that’s one hell of an idea…

It’s as if Cas can tell what Dean’s thinking about. As soon as his mind slips away, Cas snaps the waistband of the panties again, and this time the sting lands against the back of his balls, and it’s excruciating but it’s beautiful, leaving him choking on a groan.

“I know that hurt,” Cas says, leaning down to plant a chaste, closed-lipped kiss on the roundest part of Dean’s ass. “This will be better.”

Dean doesn’t realize what Cas is doing until the kisses start sloping down, closer and closer to his hole. His breathing picks up, the eagerness killing him, his toes curling while Cas palms at his ass. He’s waiting, pulse thudding in his ears, until Cas laves the flat of his hot, wet tongue over Dean’s hole.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s felt to date, his eyes squeezing shut, another gasping groan falling from his lips. His face, his whole body, tenses with the next few licks, quick kitten flicks of Cas’ tongue at Dean’s hole.

“Oh, fuck,” he manages, rocking back on Cas’ tongue as it drags from his hole to his taint, hands grasping in their bonds. “Fuck, that’s good.” He gets no teasing remarks from Cas, just another long, soaking lick before Cas’ tongue stiffens to a point, swirls around his hole, and dives in, Dean practically screaming at how good it is.

Cas tonguefucks him for what feels like ages and milliseconds simultaneously, until Dean is reduced to a litany of short, shallow breaths punctuated by an occasional yelp when Cas bites in with his nails.

He’s achingly hard by now; from the right angle, he can watch himself drool clear precome onto the table, the head of his dick poking out of his waistband, almost as red as the panties he’s wearing. Cas is getting him closer every second, alternating between kitten licks and long drags of tongue and quick and dirty thrusts inside. He’s so close, silently begging for it with everything he’s got, and then Cas’ tongue is just gone, it’s gone, the saliva that drips down him cooling quickly.

He’s devoid of sensation until he feels Cas’ lips on him again, the same chaste kiss as before, on the same spot. Cas restarts the agonizing process of teasing Dean until he all but pleas for it.

“You don’t get to come,” Cas says against his skin, “until you’re sobbing for me.” That alone is almost enough to bring tears to Dean’s eyes, his breath catching as he tries to take in big lungfuls of air.

Then Cas’ tongue returns, this time with a ferocity like no other, as though Cas is on death row and this is his last meal. He eats Dean out like his life depends on it, Dean grinding helplessly back on his tongue, screaming when it thrusts into him, takes him by surprise. It feels so good, he feels so good, he’s getting tonguefucked by his best friend and he feels so _fucking good_ , it’s like he’s found religion, being ripped to shreds and put just as painfully back together.

Cas drags his teeth against Dean’s flesh, and Dean whines, and he whimpers and then—and then— mouths at Dean’s skin until he finds the softest part of him, and there’s another drag of teeth like a warning before Cas _bites_ , _hard_ , into his skin. Dean shouts with the force of it, the sting still dying down when Cas returns to lick at him. His hand goes to the bite, and rubs it, smacks it, keeps the wince-worthy pain alive and singing through Dean’s body.

It’s so much, it’s all so much, the silk of the panties against his cock, the restraints on his hands, the ache of the bite, the hot wet fullness in him, all around him, that finally, he does it; he sobs. His mind is empty of everything but sensation, there’s no fear, there’s no hesitation, it’s just he and Cas, and it’s like he’s falling, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect, his face slack against the table, hitching, full-throated whimpers pouring from his opened mouth. It all builds and builds and builds until he sees white, feels something inside him break, feels his dick twitch as he empties all over the table, all over his stomach, ruining his panties beyond repair.

He doesn’t know if he blacked out, or fell asleep, or if no time passed at all, but the next thing he knows, his back is being rubbed by gentle, long-fingered hands, still face down on the table.

“You’ve done beautifully,” a voice tells him, and it takes him a long, long moment to recognize it as Cas. “You are absolutely heartbreaking when you cry.”

Dean laughs breathlessly, kneads the table with his forehead. “Thanks, I guess.” he manages.

Cas laughs. “Oh, it’s a very good thing,” he agrees. “Come on, sit up.” He coaxes Dean upright.

While Cas is completely tidy, Dean’s shirts are both rumpled messes, his hair is sticking out at all angles, and from the waist down, he’s a study in debauchery, his panties ruined, his stomach sticky, and, of course, the bite mark on his ass. He winces as soon as he’s sitting on the table, then squirms where he sits, drawing out the pain.

“My number is in your phone,” Cas tells him, kisses him again. “Thank you for that.” Dean pauses.

“Wait,” he says, slowly, coming back to himself. “Didn’t you…”

“Trust me,” Cas assures him. “This evening has given me plenty to think on later.” His last kiss is chaste. Dean pauses.

“I’ll see you around the office?” Cas nods.

“You’ll see me other times, as well, if all goes according to plan.” He walks over to the door. “Mr. Smith.”

“Yeah, uh...Cas,” Dean repeats, mimicking his sarcastically professional tone. He watches Cas go, like he’d watched so many conquests before, but this felt...different, empty. He sighs, gets redressed (so what if he tucked the panties in the pocket of his slacks, they’ll wash) and makes for the door to sneak back into his office, grab what he figured were the keys to his goddamn Prius, and let his GPS take him home.

~*~

The following morning finds Dean striding happily into work, a spring in his step, only partially because of the pretty green and grey panties that were in his underwear drawer. He hums Metallica in the elevator up to his floor, figuring he’ll stop by his office to set his things down before swinging by to visit Cas, get his fix until their “lunch meeting”.

When he arrives in his office, though, it’s already unlocked; there’s a letter on his desk, return addressed for Castiel Novak, Dallas, Texas. Dean pauses, confused—far as he knows, they ain’t in Texas—and tears opened the letter.

 

_Dean,_

_I regret to inform you, so shortly after our first meeting together, that Sandover has opted to transfer me to their Dallas, Texas office as a result of something of a corporate emergency._

_I cannot imagine poorer timing on their part. I trust you will believe me when I tell you that I made a good faith effort to remain in Chicago, with you, but it was ill received._

_I do hope this is not the ending of things for us. Having been pining after you for four years, I cannot express the irony_ —fuck irony, Dean thinks— _of this sudden, unexpected turn of events. I would always be happy to receive you in my Texas home, and, provided you remain in Chicago, or, indeed, wherever you may go, I will endeavour to visit when work allows._

_This does not change any of the things I said to you. You are still a hard worker, an intelligent man, incredibly capable, and, obviously, stunningly handsome. I expect to hear great things from you, Mr. Smith._

_Warmest affection, my darling,_

_Castiel James Novak_

 

Dean sits down on the edge of his desk, holding the letter in one hand. The paper trembles, quivering as he takes a deep, long breath.

Fuck this. Fuck this place, fuck this company, fuck Cas, and fuck that stupid witch. 

He’d only known this version of Cas for a day, but Cas is Cas, whether he’s a hotshot CFO who can do amazing things with his mouth or an awkward angel who Dean knows as a friend, his best friend. At their cores, they’re the same, and it makes Dean think about his Cas, his Cas back home, the dorky guy who he said he didn’t love, in that godforsaken parking lot with that godforsaken witch and now holy shit he’s crying, and about what, about some guy he was in a weird, tenuous relationship with, a relationship that started and ended on the same day? He thinks about Cas’ letter, _I expect to hear great things from you, Mr. Smith_ , and drags a hand down his face as if that will wipe the pain away. It doesn’t.

He picks up his things, tells the secretary he’s taking a personal day, don’t forward his calls unless they’re from Mr. Novak, thank you, and steps into the elevator.

She’s waiting for him in the parking garage. As soon as he rounds the corner to his car and sees that stupid red and white gingham, (a dress this time, with a blazer, she thinks she’s clever) he hurls his briefcase to the floor.

“You fucking bitch!” he shouts, voice echoing; there’s no one else down there, just him and the woman who put him in this universe in the first place. “I’ve learned my lesson, okay? Point made, problem solved, now put me back.” She laughs, turning to face him.

“You think it’s so easy?” she says. “Oh, no. No, just because you get all weepy, doesn’t mean you get to go home.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean demands. “What, daddy not hug you enough as a kid? Is that it? Somebody break your heart, too?”

_Too._

“If you try and stir up trouble,” she says, instead of answering, “like you did yesterday, with Cas, I will make things much, much worse for you. Just play your part like a good little boy and we won’t have any problems.” Dean glares at her.

“Oh, we’ve already got problems, lady,” he grinds out, storming over to her, but as soon as she’s in swinging distance he’s got another face full of that goddamn powder and it’s back to sleep for him.

* * *

 

“...Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light.” The voice hovers through the beaded curtain Dean wakes up across from, in a little house surrounded what looks like a forest. “Did it take long to find me? And are you gonna stay the night?” It’s gravel-low and coarse, but sweet and soothing; Dean would know it anywhere.

“Cas,” he says from the bed he’s lying on, nothing more than a mattress on a floor. The singing pauses, and Cas pokes a shaggy-haired head around the corner.

“Hey, goodlookin’,” he grins. “Have you been enjoying the music?” Dean sits up, his head thudding.

“Yeah,” he agrees, grudgingly following the witch’s advice. “What’cha doin’?”

“Cooking,” Cas says from the next room. “Toast and powdered eggs. Breakfast of champions.”

Dean stands, meanders in to join him. Cas is wearing light-looking, loose, yellow pants and a _Wham!_ t-shirt Dean recognises as his, his dark beard thick and unkempt; he walks over to him, sets a hand on his chest, kisses Dean chastely on the lips.

The gesture takes him by surprise; he doesn’t kiss back, just stands still, not exactly used to gentleness from Cas yet, not after last time.

“Something up?” he asks, firmly in Dean’s space like it’s home, and Dean can’t honestly say that he feels any different.

“Just got a headache,” Dean replies. Cas hums, turns, and reaches into a cabinet, handing Dean an orange-tinted bottle of pills.

“Take a red one, and a round white one,” he says, pressing the pills into his hand. “The red one’s for the headache, the white one’s just for fun.” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever you say,” he sighs, and opens the bottle, tossing them both back.

“Attababy,” Cas grins. He takes the bottle from Dean and smacks his ass as he walks off. “Hey,” he says from the stove. “Now that I’ve got you in the mood for some debauchery, how about you smoke with me before you head out for the day?” Dean hums.

“Could do,” he shrugs. The cocktail of meds means that his headache’s fading fast, and replacing it is a sense of dizziness that sweeps him off of his feet. Cas smiles.  

“Step in the right direction,” he agrees. “Go lie on the bed, I’ll bring the breakfast.” Dean nods, heading to the bedroom. “Roll one for us while you wait, would’ja?”

“Sure,” he agrees, returning to the bedroom. “Where’s the stuff?”

“Wooden box by the bed,” Cas calls back, laughing. “That oxy hits you fast, huh?”

 _Oxy._ He figured as much. He’d never had oxy before; once, when he went to an Ozzy show with Sammy, he’d done some coke in a bathroom, and of course he smoked cigarettes when he was a kid, and weed in the early days of travelling around with his brother. It pulled him away from reality, cut the ties that bound him to his worries, pulled out the memories of burning flesh and sulfur and blood and filled his head with cotton fluff.

He meanders over to the box, looks inside, and finds the little dime bag and the rolling papers, the thin cardboard, even a pen to pack them with.

“Looks like it,” he replies, taking the box, bringing it over to the bed. Dean rolls one, lets himself space out as his hands do the work from muscle memory. By the time Cas returns with a plate full of toast and eggs and two mugs of coffee, there are two fat joints sitting on top of the closed box, and Dean’s already floating.

“Hey,” Cas coaxes, half-teasing. “Stay with me. Let’s get some food in you, stud.” Dean laughs a little, he’s not sure what’s funny but he feels so loose he just can’t help it.

“Stud,” he laughs.

“Yeah, stud,” Cas repeats. “Open up, huh?” Dean does—Cas could tell him to stand on his head right now and he’d do it—and Cas forks in a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. They’re good, or maybe it’s just the oxy, but either way he doesn’t care.

Cas gets a few more bites into him, takes a few himself, then reaches for a joint. He rolls it over in his hands, nods appreciatively.

“Well done,” he smiles, lighting one end. He puts it to his lips, lies back into Dean, and takes a deep, long inhale. Before Dean knows it, Cas is leaning up, towards him. He presses his lips against Dean’s, licks into his mouth, and, slowly, gradually, fills Dean’s lungs with sweet, skunky smoke. Cas leans back, grins at Dean, and closes his hanging-open mouth with a finger.

“Wow,” Dean says, smoke curling out of his mouth.

“Wow,” Cas laughs, taking a drag of his own. Dean smiles at him, eyes starting to redden and glaze, pupils the size of black holes in a sea of green, and kisses him again. This time, there’s no transfer of smoke, it’s kissing just to kiss, kissing just so Dean can wrap his hand around the back of Cas’ neck just like the other Cas did to him before—he’s hard just thinking about it, and that doesn’t go unnoticed by Cas.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asks, turning onto his stomach, chest-to-chest on top of Dean. Cas strokes a hand down the bulge in Dean’s sweatpants, kisses his neck.

“You,” Dean purrs back, melting into the bed. “Gimme another hit, baby.”

“Mm,” Cas says into the bolt of his jaw. “Yes, sir.” He straddles Dean’s hips, holds the joint to his mouth, lets Dean take a big breath before sighing it out in curling plumes.

Cas takes a hit himself, sets the joint aside in an ashtray, and puts his hands on Dean’s chest to stabilize himself as he gives him a long, slow grind down against his cock. Dean’s eyes close, and between the oxy, and the weed, and the friction of Cas against him, he can feel everything and nothing at once.

They kiss for a while longer, breathing smoke into the air and into each others’ mouths. Somewhere in the middle, they split another oxy, and if Dean thought he was high before, he’s miles away now. Perhaps that’s why, when Dean feels Cas’ hardon against his thigh, he catches his heavy-lidded blue eyes and slurs, “Wanna suck you, sweetheart.” The pet name is sudden, almost involuntary; the pot shuts down the part of Dean’s brain that says _you can’t do that, that’s not normal, he’s not that to you._

Cas nods, his grin spreading honey-drip slow across his face. He rolls onto his back, spreads his legs, joint held loosely between pointer finger and thumb.

Dean kneels between his bent knees, pulls down the waistband of his pants, lets his thick, flushed cock spring free. Cas strokes his fingers through his hair, waits, patient in the slowness of the long morning.

Dean spends a moment just...staring. He couldn’t deny that yeah, he’d imagined what Cas’ dick would look like, imagined what he’d taste like on the back of his tongue, and now he is so close, Cas is right there—he wraps loose fingers around Cas’ cock, smooths the oozing precome down his length, gives him a few reverent strokes before he dips forward to drag his tongue along his underside. Cas groans, already shifting under Dean’s attention, and tightens his grip in Dean’s hair.

Dean gives him another long, wet lick, then swirls his tongue around his head, tastes the bitter, salty-sweat tang of him on his tongue. It’s so good, god, it’s so good; he runs his tongue along the underside of the crown in search of more, closes his full lips around his head, and suckles on him, hand wrapped around his shaft. It earns him a moan, an “oh, fuck, Dean,” from Cas, and if this little gets this kind of reaction, Dean just has to know what more will win him.

He relaxes as best he can, takes a deep breath, and eases Cas’ cock into his mouth. He gags, once, pulls off and catches his breath, then goes in for another shot, this time taking Cas all the way down until the head nudges against the back of his throat.

Cas’ fingers tighten in Dean’s hair, tug on it, and the surprise of the sting makes Dean swallow around Cas, makes it even better. He pulls off again, strands of saliva and precome running from his mouth to the glistening head of Cas’ cock, and sets one hand on Cas’ hip to pin him to the bed.

He takes him down again, bobs his head around him, fucks his own throat on Cas’ cock. His hips press up, trying to control the pace, but Dean pushes them right back down and slows when Cas gets impatient. The whole room smells like weed and sex and sweat, the air heavy. Cas’ cock is a drug all its own; his reactions are addicting, and Dean needs another hit.

He swallows again, takes Cas ever deeper until his nose presses into the thatch of dark curls, pulls off to press open-mouthed kisses along his cock. It shines, slick and sloppy, in the dim light of the room, Dean’s lips red and wet.

Cas makes a little fragile sound, and Dean’s eyes slide up to catch a glimpse of his face. It’s slack, his blue eyes fluttering closed as he groans and whines, the noises coming from the very pit of him, from the deepest place in his being. He opens his eyes, looking into Dean’s like he’s committing the moment to memory, and brushes his fingers through Dean’s hair, and Dean, the sap, damn near comes on the spot.

Cas gives him a gummy smile, breathes out a little laugh, and lets his head drop back down. “I love you,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it for the very first time, his eyes sliding closed. Dean’s whole body seizes up. “I love you, Dean.”

Dean’s lucky he doesn’t have to answer; he just laps and sucks and kisses at Cas’ cock, takes it down and lets the head bump his throat, trying to force himself back out of his mind. Cas groans, thinks nothing of Dean’s silence, lets his head fall back onto the pillows as Dean slides his mouth lower.

He closes his eyes, lets instinct guide him, strokes Cas with one hand as he licks and sucks at his balls with the other. That does something to Cas; he arches, grabs at the sheets with his drug-slowed reflexes, tries to shove his hips up despite Dean’s hand holding them down. He’s close to coming, Dean can tell, he’s sweating and shifting and practically vibrating with it. Dean licks back up his straining, flushed shaft, moves one hand down to his balls while the other squeezes up and down his cock like a vice. He wraps his lips around his head and swirls his tongue under the crown, then back to the slit, lapping up pulses of precome.

Cas groans Dean’s name, broken like a warning, but Dean, at the surprise of even himself, doesn’t pull off, just sucks harder and jerks him faster until he feels Cas pulse across his tongue.

Sometimes, he would taste himself on the mouth of a girl, the bitter, salt tang of come on her lips, but here, now, with Cas, it’s almost sweet, or maybe that’s just psychosomatic. Either way, he pays it no mind, so mesmerised by the man, by the way he moves, by the way he writhes and pants as he finishes down Dean’s throat.

Dean swallows it all, catches his breath and lets Cas guide him up to lie face-to-face with him on his side. Without a word, Cas slides a hand into Dean’s sweatpants, reaches into his boxers—god, he hardly realised how hard he was, but now, with Cas’ hand around him, he’s utterly aware of it—and strokes him, bridging the few inches between them to kiss.

Dean’s spilling hot and fast over Cas’ hand almost embarrassingly quickly and with a plain, ungraceful grunt, but Cas says nothing of it, just pulls out his hand, licks off the white that drips down it (a move which makes Dean’s cock give a valiant twitch) and settles back down. Their high is fading now, and Cas looks past Dean, at the clock that hangs over a record player.

“Just a few minutes until you gotta head out for another of your search-and-destroy missions,” he says simply. “Thanks for that, by the way. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever get one again.”

While Cas is quiet, Dean wonders why the version of himself who’s with this Cas wouldn’t have his mouth on him every spare moment he can, ‘cause that was damn near a religious experience. That thought is quickly chased by wondering why the same doesn’t go for his real self, his 2013 self, and that’s followed by a stinging memory of Cas’ loose-lipped confession, and what Dean should say, what can he say but _I_ \--

“What’s with you today, by the way?” Cas interrupts. “I don’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, but…”

“Wha’d’ya mean?” Dean asks. Cas shrugs.

“You just seem more...here. Even when you’re high,” he snickers, adding, very softly like he’s laying himself open for Dean, “I’ve never felt so close to you. Not even before I fell. This is as...real as we’ve ever felt.”

Dean gives him a fragile, weak smile. “Guess I’ve just been thinking,” he says vaguely. Cas smiles back at him, tugs him in for another kiss.

“Yeah, well, I like this you,” he says, snapping the emotional moment in two by playfully shoving him away. “Now, get outta here, fearless leader. Don’t wanna make everyone wait.” Dean stands, shucks off his sweatpants, and leaves his come-soaked boxers on the floor with the other dirty clothes. He replaces them with some new ones that he figures are his from a nondescript drawer, and heads for the door.

He pauses.

“Hey, Cas?”

Cas stops packing up the smoke box, raising his eyes.

“I—I mean, you know—I—feel that for you, too,” he stutters out, unsure if Cas will even get the jist.

Cas lowers his head, smiles at the bedspread, dark bangs obscuring his face.

“Yeah. Get outta here, fuckin’ sap,” he mutters, and Dean snorts a laugh before finally leaving Cas alone for the day.

~*~

The mission is painless. He picks up on cues from the team he apparently leads, a group of nondescript survivors with nothing but guns and waning wills to live to keep them out of the hands of the Croats. Dean picks everything up quick, and their losses are minimal, managing to even scavenge some supplies on the way home. He’s content as he comes back to the main house, ready to plan the next day’s raid and poke around the place to get a feel for his hopefully temporary home.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greets, tucking his gun back into his waistband. “Miss me?” He walks further into their house, met with nothing but silence, no humming, no clattering as his best friend putters around, no smartass remark. “Cas?”

He wanders into the bathroom, no Cas. To the den, no Cas. To the kitchen, no Cas. He’s starting to think Cas is maybe in another cabin, but then he sees him, lying on the bed, splayed out. As he approaches, the quiet is broken by the same song Cas was singing from the kitchen in the beginning pours from the record player, sounding quiet and far away. _And if I ever lose my eyes, if my colors all run dry/ Yes if I ever lose my eyes, Oh if I won't have to cry no more._

 _Asleep_ , thinks Dean, moving the beaded curtain out of the way. He lets it fall easy, best not to wake him, and perches on the edge of the mattress while he toes out of his shoes. He curls up close to Cas’ side, sets his head on his chest, listening for the _thump-thump_ of his heart…

And hears only silence.

“Cas?” he says, lifting his head. “Cas, angel, wakey wakey…” Dean jostles him, but the man lies still, moved only by Dean’s nudges. His chest doesn’t rise and fall, his pulse doesn’t thud when Dean sets his fingers to his neck. He’s cold, hollow, and it’s all so wrong. Surely, he can’t be…

“Hey,” he coaxes, gathering Cas into his arms, sitting him up. When he moves him, the bottle of pills rolls off the bed, spills all over the floor, and Dean’s stomach drops.

“No, no, hey, come on,” he says, half-laughing, like the whole situation is an unkind joke. “Cas, come on, don’t play like this. Don’t.” Cas’ head lolls forward, his whole body limp, slack in Dean’s arms. He lies him back, breathes into his mouth in a new way now than before, just trying to fill his lungs, to restart his still heart.

“Cas, not now,” Dean pleads, tearing up, his voice turning frantic, his hands trembling. “Not now, please, we just got started--we can make it better, baby, we can fix it, please don’t leave me now. I don’t—I need you, Cas.” He wraps his arms around Cas, holds him close, sobs broken pleas and promises, _I don’t wanna be alone, I’ll do whatever I can, you gotta come back, Cas, Cas_.

“I love you.”

He’s in tears, rocking Cas’ empty shell, his vessel, torn up and spat out on the other side of a long, long war, repeating his name like a chant, like a prayer, when the front door opens and there are footsteps in the hallway. Dean knows who it is before she even rounds the corner, a chill rocketing down his spine.

“Drugs can be terrible things,” says a voice, sour with false sympathy. Dean doesn’t turn to her, his face cold and hard even as tears roll down his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” he spits, still clinging to Cas.

“You’re on your way to learning your lesson,” she says, “but I’m not done with you yet. There’s a little more I want you to see.”

Dean is silent.

“It’s not as fun when you don’t fight,” she admits, walking over to Dean to blow the powder into his eyes. As soon as it hits him, he lets himself succumb, falling backwards with his angel—always his angel—splayed across his chest.

As the world fades out yet again, he hears those lines Cas sang: _Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light. Did it take long to find me? And are you gonna stay the night?_


	3. Chapter 3

After two days and one long night of poring over obits and newspapers and hours of phone tag with local hunters and sheriffs, the witch was dead.

Sam and Cas (who, summoned by what he described as “a bad feeling,” arrived shortly after Dean’s sleep hit) found her in Moab, Utah, magicking a herd of steers into goring an animal rights activist in his own kitchen.

It wasn’t even a fight, when they got her cornered; Sam was all ready, gun raised, shoot first, ask questions never, but before he knew it, Cas was practically on top of her, his angel blade up to its hilt in her chest.

He wasn’t satisfied with that, though; he sunk the blade in again and again and again until Sam started to worry, hauling him off of her by the shoulders as he railed and writhed against his hands.

They could tell it hadn’t worked from a mile off. Cas, stained with the witch’s blood, tried to stir Dean awake, but to no avail.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam assured, pulling him back again. This time, though, he wrestled free, and, turning tender, wrapped Dean in an old, woolen blanket, resting a hand across his forehead with the tenderness of a kiss.

After, in the car, Cas was the first to speak. Dean’s body was lain across the backseat, wrapped in a blanket, unmoving.

“He called out to me,” Cas said. “When he...got cursed, before he fell asleep. I can hear him calling, still. But I didn’t come then, and I can’t now.”

“Cas…” Sam offered lamely, looking over to him, driving Baby through the countryside en route to a motel.

“I failed him, Sam. I always fail him, and now…perhaps I’ve failed him for good.”

~*~

The next time he wakes up, Dean is staring at a soft, thin sheet stretched taut over his head, dappled light filtering through it. It’s quiet, peacefully so; there are birds chirping outside, somewhere, and gentle snoring from his side.

He turns his head and finds himself nose to nose with a kid—seven or eight years old, maybe— with dark, messy hair and a straight nose, face relaxed in sleep.

He doesn’t recognise him from his childhood, which means he must be someone new, Dean figures.

He sits up, catching a glimpse of gangly, scrawny legs— _his_ gangly, scrawny legs.

It wouldn’t be a surprise if the witch de-aged him; his last world was a few years into his own future, after all, and the first one was something else entirely.

The only real constant, between all these worlds, has been—

Cas.

It falls into place for him; he turns to his friend, asleep on top of a spread-out sleeping bag, and nudges his arm.

“Cas.”

His voice is high-pitched like, well, a kid’s. He’d forgotten about that part.

“Cas, wake up,” he insists, jogging his arm. His sleeping friend buries his head in the pillows, grumbling.

“I’m tired, Dean,” Cas argues, cracking open one blue eye. “What do you want?”

Dean pauses, shrugging. He doesn’t know what he wanted, to be honest; he just needs to see Cas, he figures, just to spend time with him.

“I dunno,” he admits. “Just...for you to wake up, I guess. To, you know, talk.” Cas smiles, sweet and slow.

“That’s very sweet, Dean,” he says, his grumbly, grumpy mood dissolving. Cas sits up, slow, stretching towards the sheet that forms their blanket fort ceiling, and yawns. “Should we get some breakfast?” Dean smiles, nods.

“That sounds good.”

He follows Cas, crawling with him out from under the fort, down a dark hallway and into the warm, yellow light of the living room, _his_ living room, from when he was a kid with a home. There’s a woman inside, sitting in a rocking chair with her back turned towards him.

“Hey, kiddo,” she greets, half-turning to face him.

Dean’s stomach drops. His mouth goes dry.

“Mom,” he says, reverent.  Mary laughs.

“That’s me.” She closes her book and sets it aside. “Good morning, Cas.”

“Good morning, Missus W,” Cas says, pawing at his eye.

Dean is still silent, his jaw on the floor. When he was a kid, he never committed his mom to memory like he should’ve. He thought of her as a constant, always there to hug him in the morning and tuck him in at night. But then, when she died, he had nothing of her. She was just this blonde spectre at the corner of his mind, the vaguest notion of a woman he never knew.

And now he has a second chance.

“You hungry?” Mary asks them, setting her book aside.

“Yes ma’am,” Cas nods, his bedhead sticking up in any and every direction. Dean just nods.

“How about some chocolate banana pancakes?” she suggests, smiling at the two boys as she heads for the kitchen.

“Can I help you cook, mom?” Dean asks, the first thing out of his mouth since his greeting. Mary chuckles, leading the boys into the kitchen, Cas in baby blue footy pyjamas, Dean in long johns and an old _Reading Rainbow_ t-shirt.

“I’m always happy for the help,” she says. “Cas? Wanna give us a hand?”

“Of course.”

The three of them make short work of the morning’s cooking, Dean and Cas standing on matching step-stools to see over the high counter.

They cut bananas into rough chunks, crack eggs, flip pancakes with Mary’s steady hands wrapped around theirs, and then, after a few tries, just the two of them together, grinning at each other when it lands just right on the griddle.

“Alright!” Mary cheers, proud. “Nicely done, boys. You two make a great team.” The pride in her voice makes Dean light up from the inside out, makes him feel warm all over.

“Thank you, Missus W,” Cas beams with a gummy smile.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Any time,” Mary agrees, stacking the chocolate-dappled pancakes high on plates and drizzling them with syrup.

They eat them on the floor, in front of The Batman, Tarzan, and Lone Ranger Adventure Hour, and Ghostbusters, and Fraggle Rock, and then Looney Toons comes on and Mary turns to the news.

“I think that’s enough TV this morning, boys,” she says. Dean frowns.

“Aw, mom, c’mon,” he coaxes, letting himself pretend this was his real childhood, watching cartoons with his best friend and his mom with enough pancakes to feed a village. “Cas loves Looney Toons, don’t’cha, Cas?”

“Road Runner is my favourite,” his friend agrees, giving Mary a grave, earnest look as he swallows a mouthful of pancake.

“Road Runner will be on later,” she assures them both. “How about you take a walk? You can go down to the community lot, it’s a beautiful morning…” Dean looks to Cas, shrugging.

“You wanna?” Cas nods.

“Okay,” he smiles, his face lit with the benignness of childhood, of suburban simplicity.

“And maybe this evening we can watch Indiana Jones,” Mary suggests, drawing an audible gasp from both boys. “I think you’re both old enough.”

“Woah, really, Mom?” Dean remembers that part, remembers nagging his mom to see Indiana Jones, remembers getting told he was much too young.

(At four, she was right; she didn’t know that what he’d have to endure that same year would be much worse than a face-melting ark and a few tanks.)

“I think so,” she nods. “Now, go get dressed. And don’t leave the neighborhood on your walk, understood?” Cas bounds off ahead of Dean, a cheerful, “We won’t, Missus W!” thrown over his shoulder.

They dress hastily in Dean’s room, in their jeans and Keds, Dean in a Ninja Turtle t-shirt and Cas in one from a VBS.

“Hang on,” Dean says, looking at his piggy bank where it sits on his desk. “In case we see the ice cream truck, you know?” he grins, putting a handful of change in his pocket and passing one to Cas.

“Yeah,” Cas nods. “Thanks, Dean.”

Mary walks them to the edge of the yard in the warm midmorning sun, and Dean catches a glimpse of their house from the outside. It’s just the way he remembered, but now there’s a tire swing in the yard and a raised bed where it looks like Mary grows vegetables, red tomatoes and yellow squashes alongside the green sprouts of carrots and potatoes.

It’s perfect. It’s better than he remembered.

“Be back before dark,” Mary tells them firmly. “I don’t want you walking around at night, okay?”

“Okay,” they chorus, already heading off.

~*~

The neighborhood is made up of five dead ends; Dean and Cas walk down one cul-de-sac where they catch the ice cream truck (they both get orange popsicles), and another where a woman lets them pet her huge, friendly German Shepherd. They talk about everything, TV and movies and comics and school and Cas’ encroaching birthday. He’s having a Ghostbusters themed party.

“I’m gonna be eight,” Cas says. “You’re eight, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“So what’s it like?”

“It’s fun. I help Mom take care of Sammy sometimes,” Dean replies, pulling from his real childhood, but not too much, god knows. Cas smiles brilliantly and Dean is enamored with him.

“You’re a good brother, Dean,” he tells him, earnest. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, kicking a rock down the road. “Me too, Cas.”

“Seven is old enough to kiss, though,” Cas cuts in. “I mean, I don’t think I have to be eight. Because...if we’re old enough to watch Indiana Jones, we have to be old enough to kiss. Don’t we?”

“Sure,” Dean agreed, pinking slightly. “I guess. I mean, is there...who would you wanna kiss?” Cas looks over, blushes, shrugs.

“I dunno,” Cas admits. “Who would you wanna kiss?” Dean shrugs, too.

“Somebody I like,” he replies.

The rock tumbles into a storm drain; Dean peers down through the grate, and across from him, Cas  leans forward to stare into the dark. Their foreheads bump, and Cas’ eyes flick up and meet Dean’s, silent for a long while, the two of them close. It’s easy for Dean to forget his mind, to let himself just be here, this Dean with this Cas. To enjoy everything before fate hits them.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Their walk ends at the community lot, which turns out to be a little plot of grass with a grill, a water hose, and what Dean decides is a pretty cool playground with swings and a see-saw and a rock wall and a tower, like a castle, with a big spyglass.

“Bet I can get up the wall faster than you,” Cas says, nonchalant but grinning. Dean looks over at him and raises his eyebrows.

“Bet you can’t,” he prods.

And with that, they’re off. Dean beats Cas up the rock wall, but then they have a face-off to see who can swing highest, and Cas sweeps that one.

Part of Dean thinks it’s because of his wings.

They see-saw for a minute or two before deciding it’s boring, both of them making for the castle tower right after. They investigate how well the spyglass works; Cas sits in the tower and looks through it, and Dean runs as far away as he can without going out of sight and yells back at Cas, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

When he gets it wrong four times, Cas comes to the conclusion that it’s just a few pieces of window glass in a tube, which seems to disappoint him greatly, but Dean tells him there’s not much in the neighborhood to see anyway, except some dogs and that one cool fountain that lady has, and Cas feels better.

It’s the happiest Cas he’s seen in any of the universes, and the happiest he’s been, by extension. It’s also the longest they’ve had together, which makes sense, he figures, what with the way childhood makes summer days seemed to sprawl like cats in the sun.

“So who do you like?” he finds himself saying, looking at his friend in the late afternoon light where they sit on the floor of the tower, watching a caterpillar creep across the wooden boards. Cas shrugs.

“My mom, I guess,” he replies simply, his long, slightly curling hair hanging into his earnest, squinting eyes. “And some of my brothers, and most of my sisters. And I like your mom, and your brother, and Kevin from school.”

“No,” Dean clarifies. “Who do you like-like? Like, kiss-like?”

Cas blushes, looks down, picks at a fraying thread in his jeans. “One guy.” Dean’s breath catches.

“What guy?”

Cas looks up at him, fleeting, then back down, his eyes settling on Dean’s knee. “You, assbutt,” he says fast, like that makes it easier.

Dean laughs a little, diffusing some of their nerves. “That’s not a real swear, you dork.” He shoves his friend, who laughs and shoves him back.

“...Hey,” Dean interrupts, setting his hands over Cas’ almost automatically. “I like you too, Cas.”

“Like, kiss-like?”

“Uh huh.”

Cas turns his head away, like he doesn’t want Dean to see his gap-toothed grin. “Okay,” he nods, facing Dean again, all serious now. “Do you think what I said earlier is true?”

“What?”

“Do you think we could...kiss? Since we can watch Indiana Jones now?”

Dean smiles, something private and small but no less real.

“Yeah. I think we could.”

So Cas leans in, and Dean leans in, Cas’ hands on the wooden plank floor of the tower, Dean’s still on top of Cas’. The kiss is quick and vaguely orange flavored, chaste and tiny and sunlit and perfect. They’re both grinning like idiots when they pull back, and after one more investigation of the spyglass to see if anything’s different (it’s not), they go home, holding hands.

~*~

When they get back, Mary’s got pirate-shaped pasta waiting for them, and Sam runs over to hug Dean’s leg and say hi to his big brother, giving him a nearly-toothless smile. Dean hugs him back and musses his hair, and they eat together, Cas holding his hand under the table.

She puts Sam down for the night once dinner is over and he’s watched his Alvin and the Chipmunks, and then they all huddle up on the sofa with Choco Tacos and Indiana Jones.

When the Nazi’s face melts off, Cas dives under the blanket and shoves himself right up against Dean’s side. Mary watches as Dean holds his friend tight, even though he’s maybe a little freaked himself.

When it’s over, Cas’ parents walk over from his house three doors down, and pick him up. Dean smiles real big, hugs him goodbye and waves until Cas is out of sight, until not even the playground spyglass could spot him.

“Did you have fun?” Mary asks Dean as she tucks him in.

“Uh huh,” Dean grins, bounding into his cowboy-covered bedsheets. “We kissed, mom,” he adds, whispering.

Now that she’s here, he’s gonna tell her _everything_.

“I figured,” she nods. “I’m glad you like him, Dean, baby. He’s a sweet boy, and his parents are very nice.” She kisses his forehead, and he lets her, relaxing into his bed.

“Not too old to be tucked in, huh?” Mary smiles. Dean’s smile softens, a little sad.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you, mom,” he says, like it can change the past. Mary shakes her head, running a hand through his hair.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Dean,” she murmurs, fond. “I promise. I’m gonna be here until you get tired of me.” She stands up, flicking on a soft nightlight in the far corner of the room. “Sleep well, honey. Sweet dreams.”

“Yeah. You too, mom,” he agrees, turning over and drifting off before she is even down the hall.

~*~

The morning comes slow, creeping across the windowsill like a vine. The blinds throw stripes of light across Dean’s face, bright but soft as he sits up and stretches. The house already smells like breakfast, like oatmeal, soft and homey and warm. He rolls out of bed and pads down the hall, smiling.

In the kitchen, Mary serves him a heaping bowl of oatmeal, letting Dean add brown sugar and the better part of a jar of applesauce.

He takes his bowl to his spot on the sofa and digs in, a big smile on his face, eager despite the plain meal. He hadn’t had much chance for a home-cooked meal when he was a kid, not since he was too little to remember, so he eats slow, savouring every bite while he listens to his mom hum and sing to herself.

Once his plate is clean, he heads back to his room and changes, pulling on jeans and sneakers and bounding over to Cas’ place with a quick “Gonna go play with Cas, be back for lunch, see you later Mom, bye Sammy!” over his shoulder.

He all but runs down the block, and knocks on the door of the house he’d seen Cas enter the night before, an old-fashioned two-story painted a soft baby blue.

A tall woman with a tight brown bun opens the door—Cas’ mom, he figures.

“Good morning,” he says, putting on his sweet-little-kid smile, “I’m here to see Cas.” She nods, stepping aside.

“Of course. He’s upstairs, in his room.”

“Alright,” Dean grins, slipping in past her. “Thanks!”

As soon as Dean sees Cas again, it’s like they’d never been apart. They hole up in Cas’ room and race cars down play tracks, build Lego spaceships and Lincoln Log cabins, make a blanket fort where they read comics and talk about life’s big questions.

“Hey, if dogs had voices, how do you think they’d sound?” Cas asks, the seventh in a volley of  back and forth questions between the two boys.

“Prolly depends on the dog, Cas,” Dean laughs, laying on his back next to his friend while they draw laser pointer constellations on the ceiling of the blanket fort.

“Yeah, I guess,” Cas says. He pauses for a long time and lowers his laser pointer. “...How do you know when you really like someone?” Dean lowers his pointer too, and folds his hands across his stomach. He opens his mouth to say something, but then there’s a scream from downstairs that sends his instincts kicking in. He sits up quick, scrambling out of the blanket fort.

“Mom?” Cas calls, lurching up and following Dean out.

Dean knows what’s happening when the doorknob to Cas’ room burns his hand. His mind is moving at a million miles a minute—the window is too high to climb out of, but he can’t be sure where the fire is without opening the door, and if he lets the smoke in they could suffocate, Cas could suffocate, would he rather take his chances with a jump or try to outrun fire—

The decision is made for him. Cas flings open the door, and runs downstairs, still barefoot. He’s immersed instantly in smoke; it’s all Dean can do to follow his voice.

“Mom! Mom, where are you?”

There’s a clearing in the smoke; Dean lifts his shirt to cover his mouth and nose, catching up with Cas, who follows suit. They hurry down the stairs, through the smoke that stings their eyes, finding Cas’ mother in the kitchen, nearly on the ground.

She’s coughing, bad, and leaning hard on a counter. Her eyes are red. Dean fears—no, knows—the worst, even as Cas hugs her legs and tries to drag her to the door.

“Dean,” she says, looking at the older boy. “Take Cas and go outside.”

Dean stands, frozen, his mind a few houses down, in a burning home just like this one. He’s only jarred out his his nightmare by Cas being shoved into his chest, off of his mother’s legs.

“I have to go get your dad,” she tells him. He’s already crying, and Dean doesn’t know if that’s the smoke, or something else. “We’ll be right outside.”

She turns back to Dean, and he hears two voices at once when she points and yells, “Go! Now!”

Dean wraps his arms around Cas, crying and calling for his parents, and drags him out of the crumbling house, into the yard. He turns Cas away from the destruction and hugs him tight, rubbing his back while he stares far-away, into the flames.

“They’re not coming out, Dean,” Cas says, sobbing like the scared kid he is, like the scared kid they both are. “Dean, where are they?” The fire consumes the front stoop, and Dean shuts his eyes against the crackle of burning wood.

“Let’s go home,” Dean manages gently, his own voice thick.

“No,” Cas says, pushing back from him. “They said they’d be here, Dean, we have to wait for them. They’re coming out.”

Dean just stands, silent, as tears roll down Cas’ cheeks. Paralyzed, the roof crumbles in, and Cas gasps, covering his mouth with his hand.

He knows as well as Dean does, now, and the tears come harder and faster as he turns back to his friend.

“Let’s go, Cas,” Dean says again, and Cas nods, pausing for a moment to look up at the house before they turn to run home, panting as they burst through the door. “You’re okay,” he assures. “You’re fine, Cas.”

His friend is already crying, though, and obviously Dean’s hushed words aren’t doing shit to help him, so he escorts him into the den, in the dark, the house quiet with Mary and Sam down for an afternoon nap in the nursery.

“They’re gone,” Cas manages between sobs, holding onto Dean, trembling. “Wh--wh--what am I gonna do?”

“You’re gonna be okay,” Dean insists, steering him towards the sofa. “That’s all there is to it, Cas, we’re gonna work it out.” He tucks himself in the corner, and brings Cas with him, ensnaring him in his arms.

Dean doesn’t know when Cas falls asleep. One minute, he can hear the heaving sobs, soft and racking where Cas’ face is shoved into Dean’s t-shirt, and the next, it’s silent, the quiet consuming and tense. The exhaustion Cas is feeling seeps into Dean, the room dark, their cheeks both wet with tear tracks, and soon Dean’s asleep, too, head rocked forward at an angle sure to pain him when he wakes up. He knows it won’t be the only thing that will hurt.

He hears Mary shout his name first, voice getting swept in the breeze, and he knows she is at the door, seeing the horror down the street. He fights the lucidity and burrows deeper into the cushions, holds Cas tighter, the damp breath against his front easing the tightness in his chest.

Then Mary says his name again, closer this time, relieved, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the feeling of her hand in his hair. Nothing can get to him, to _Cas,_ if they are asleep on the same couch they watch morning cartoons on.

The sirens are next, blaring past the windows, loud enough that even Cas jostles. Dean wills him not to wake.

It’s a losing battle though, because heavy feet stomp into his perfect childhood home, into his warm living room, and stop in front of them. Arms reach for Cas first and Dean’s eyes shoot wide open as he bats the hands away.

~*~

“We need to check you both over, son,” the medic says.

Dean doesn’t want that; he wants to keep Cas as near as he can, but Cas’ head pops up and, with a hoarse voice, says, “Okay.”

The medic begins running tests on Cas, and another comes for Dean. They flash lights in their eyes, press their tongues down with wooden sticks, touch the cold surface of stethoscopes to the area above their hearts, under their shirts, and ask them to cough. Between them, on the couch, Cas’ hand stays in Dean’s.

The verdict is that Dean is fine, which he already knows—the proper protocol for fires was drilled into his head by John a long time ago—and that Cas is _probably_ fine but needs to be taken to the hospital for observation.

Dean is only eight, so when he wails and clings to Cas, no one listens, and when he clutches Cas’ body, and then his hand, they pry him off, and when he tries to run after them, into the ambulance where Cas is strapped to a gurney like a goddamn invalid, Mary holds him back. She hugs him hard like that’ll make things okay, but things are never okay, not in this world, not in the last, probably not in the next. Things aren’t even okay in his reality, back home

Having Cas ripped out of his arms, literally this time, is just too much, too cruel. But that’s not the worst.

Dean expects her to appear, clad in something red and plaid. He checks every room in the house, the backyard, even sneaks off to the ruins of Cas’ after Mary tucks him into bed. But the witch doesn’t show up. He wants her to, wants to be delivered from this place even if it’s through a pinch of dubious powder. Instead, he is made to wait.

The night is molasses-slow and thick-mud heavy. Dean waits and waits and waits. The sick in his stomach spreads and consumes the rest of him, filling him with dread, not of the unknown, but of the certain. He _knows_ what is bound to happen. He and Cas will never be together, not in these alternate realities or in their real one, not now, not ever.

~*~

After hours of uncomfortable, strained silence have trudged by, the phone rings, and Mary calls his name softly. The gentle, careful tone of her voice makes Dean fear the worst.

“It’s Cas,” she says softly, poking her head into his room, where he holed up as soon as Cas was gone. “He wants to talk to you, dear.” He nods, climbing out of bed.

“Which phone…”

“In the kitchen. I’ll be right down the hall if you need me, alright?”

“Alright, Mom,” Dean agrees, hurrying to the phone. He picks it up from the counter where it sits on its back, holding it hastily to his ear. “Cas?”

“Dean,” the voice returns, sniffling and thick. “I miss you.”

Dean nods, wet-eyed.

“I miss you too. Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I breathed some smoke, but the doctors said I would be okay. I--my aunt had to come get me. The hospital called her.” he pauses. “Thank you for helping me, Dean. If it hadn’t been for you, I might not have...made it.”

Dean shakes his head, sending the tears loose from his eyes. “Don’t talk like that, Cas. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

“I know,” Cas agrees. “I--we’re going to Wichita. My aunt lives there, I’m...staying with her. Since…” he pauses. “I’m at a payphone. Aunt Ruth had to stop for gas and I had a few quarters from yesterday and I wanted to talk to you again.” His voice catches, his voice thick. “I’m really scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do. I’m all by myself. I...I…”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, the steadiness of his voice surprising him. “You’re not all by yourself; you can always call me, okay? And visit, whenever you want. I’m sure my mom will even drive out to pick you up.”

“Your mom doesn’t have to do that,” Cas sniffs. “Wichita is far.”

“She wants to,” Dean says. “She likes you. I like you, too, Cas. A lot, Cas. I--”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, sounding frantic, “Dean, the voice is telling me I’m almost out of minutes, I don’t have any more quarters--”

“It’s okay, Cas, just call me again, okay? We’ll talk again. Soon.”

“Okay, Dean,” Cas agrees hastily. “Dean, before you go, I just wanted to say, I think I l--”

The line goes dead before Cas can finish, and a sob wretches out of Dean, because he knows that’s the last he’ll hear of this Cas, the sweet, innocent person who hid his head in Dean’s chest during Indiana Jones and kissed him on the playground.

“Oh, honey,” Mary sighs, summoned, no doubt, by Dean’s tears. “It’s okay. We can call him back later, okay? But for now, you need some more rest. The paramedic said sleep is the most important thing you need right now, remember?” She outstretches her arms to him, and coaxes the phone from his hand as he paws at his eyes and rubs at his runny nose.

“W--we can’t call him back,” Dean replies, “I don’t know his phone number or his address, I don’t even know his aunt’s name...he’s gone.”

Mary shakes her head, setting the phone aside, the coiled cord making it twist on its back, and scooping Dean up. “I’ll take you to Wichita and we’ll go door to door looking for him, if that’s what it takes. It’ll be okay.”

But Dean, as he nestles his head in his mom’s neck, knows the truth: it won’t.

~*~

She takes him back to bed, tucks him back in, gives him a kiss and turns off the light before ducking out into the hallway.

Even though he’s never been in his room, here, with Cas, he can almost feel him. He can imagine him reading on the foot of his bed, sleeping on the ground beside him, playing with cars on the windowsill and eating ice cream under a blanket canopy. The room feels like a holy place, in a way, and Dean has the feeling that he shouldn’t be in there, like he’s tainting it. He climbs out of bed in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pyjamas, paws at his eye, and shuffles over to the window, pulling the blinds up and opening the window.

The night is cool, the air thick with moisture. Dean pops out the screen, shimmies out onto the eave of the house, and drops to the ground, all the skill of a hunter in the body of a grade schooler. He looks down the street, to the shell of Cas’ house--it still seems to smoke in the waxy light of early evening--and pads down his sloping front yard, perching himself on the asphalt curb where grass meets rock.

He knows what happens next. He waits for the witch, because he knows that’s all he really can do. What’s he going to do, anyway? Now, especially, he can’t fight her. He’s a thin-wristed, baby-toothed eight year old, after all. And she obviously can’t be reasoned with.

Fucking witches.

He scans the horizon, searching for the woman who will, no doubt, come along to shatter this nostalgia-filled illusion. Sure enough, around the corner, a red minivan appears, rolling steadily up to stop in front of Dean, the side wall of the front tower just inches from his sock-clad toes. The window rolls down slow, revealing the witch inside in her gingham blouse. 

"Hey, Dean," she greets. "Enjoy your little walk down memory lane?" 

"Fuck you," he replies, getting to his feet. "I'm tired of these fucking games. What do you want from me?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Big words for such a little kid," the witch teases, cracking opened the door and stepping out. "Maybe Mommy should wash your mouth out with some soap."

"Don't talk about my mom," Dean snaps, his ire getting up. He knows his ears are getting red--they always did when he was a kid, when he was mad. "And don't think I'm gonna lie down and take this from you, 'cause I'm not. I'm not gonna make this easy on you." 

The witch rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, squirt. I could scoop you up and haul you off without breaking a sweat." 

Dean grunts. "Try me," he insists, and attempts to squirrel away from the witch. Just as she predicted, though, she snags him like a kitten snags her ill-behaved young, scoops him up, and blows a handful of powder into his face even as he squirms and shouts. 

 

* * *

 

When Dean wakes up again, in a flimsy tent somewhere humid and hot, the first thing on his mind is Cas. To his right, someone (someone not Cas) with their broad back turned to him is snoring. He manages to finagle his way out of the tent without giving the other guy a knee to the back, shuffling out into the elements in search of his friend. He can’t be far, right?

The tent’s thin, not-quite-closed flaps open to a dense, wet, green space—it almost feels like it’s raining, the air is so thick. It weighs on Dean as he sucks in a deep breath and orients himself. He stands, free of the tent, in the little clearing, his feet squelching in mud as he hunts around for Cas, poking at and peering into the other tents. Their occupants are generally strangers, or else vaguely familiar faces that Dean can’t quite place. There’s no Cas, though, not until he peeks into the last tent.

He sees him, finally, reading by lighter in the dark of his tent.

“Cas,” Dean says, nudging Cas’ shoulder. Cas gasps, whirling.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, one hand on his chest. “You scared the life out of me, Dean.”

“I sure hope not,” Dean replies, breathing a huffed laugh. “What are you doin’?”

Cas raises his book. “Reading. Kerouac.”

“In the jungle?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow, fishing for information.

“And during wartime,” Cas concurs.

Wartime in the jungle.

Vietnam.

Dean idly wonders if he’ll bump into John (god, he hopes not) as he settles into the tent with Cas.

“Welcome to Tent Novak,” Cas says, teasing. “Benny snoring too loudly for you?”

“Benny?” Dean repeats. Surely, he’s not the same Benny…

“LaFitte,” Cas elaborates. “Your tentmate, genius.”

Fuck, it is. What’s Benny doing here?

Dean glances at the empty patch beside Cas, where he feels another bedroll should be. “You got a tentmate?”

“Are you asking if we’ll be interrupted?” Cas smirks, teasing.

Dean pauses. Is Cas flirting with him? Or is it just teasing, between friends?

“What are you doing up so late?” Cas asks, saving Dean the room for error.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean answers. It’s not a lie, he figures.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

Dean glances around in the thin glow of Cas’ lighter, which he soon extinguishes, closes his book and sets them both aside, plunging both men into the darkness. “No,” he says.

Cas hums. “Who can, out here? Did you hear what happened to Kevin?”

“No,” Dean replies, fearing the worst.

“Then you don’t need to know,” Cas answers plainly. “Come on, lie down. I’ll read some Kerouac to you.”

“Is Kerouac really a good sleep aid?” Dean laughs as Cas shuffles to one end of the tent.

“Second only to a good orgasm,” Cas nods sagely, “but you don’t seem like you have the energy for that right now.”

Chuckling, and unable to argue, Dean moves to lay his head on the thin tent floor, but Cas stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re gonna mess up your neck, dumbass. Put your head on my knee.”

Just eager to get close to Cas, Dean complies, and lays his heavy, shaggy-haired head on Cas’ bony and underfed knee. It’s angular,  imperfect, and better than the damp, unforgiving ground.

Cas clears his throat dramatically, flicks his lighter again as he picks up the book, a beat-up copy of _On the Road_ , and begins. “I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and--”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts. He was half asleep as soon as Cas started reading, but before he can let himself doze, he has to say those words he wanted to say in the last universe, those words he didn’t have the time to push out.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” Cas smiles, and the lighter flicks off. Dean feels a hand pet through his hair, and he ensnares Cas’ leg in his arms, cradling it to his body like a prized possession.

“War makes you sappy,” he teases lightly, his reciprocation implicit in his tone.

“You have no idea,” Dean concurs. “Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas replies, the lighter flicking back on. “-- really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future…”

~*~

In what feels like no time at all, Cas is jostling Dean awake.

“Dean. Dean. Winchester,” he murmurs, gentle, his face low, down by Dean’s ear. “Baby, we’re marching out. You wanna get yelled at?”

“Hmph,” Dean grumbles, turning over, burying his face (accidentally) into Cas’ crotch. “Don’ wanna.”

“Sarge is gonna flay you alive,” Cas says harmlessly, picking him up more or less by the hair and relocating him to the floor, “but suit yourself.”

Slowly, Dean sits up and opens his eyes to see Cas tugging on tall boots, tucking his fatigues into them, and lacing them up. In the morning light, he can see Cas better now; his hair dangles in his eyes, long and almost shoulder length, and his lips are pursed around a lit cigarette.

“He lives,” Cas greets, his smile crooked. He tucks his hair behind one ear.

“Don’ talk to me,” Dean grumbles in return, pawing at one eye. He glances down—still in his boots—and turns back to Cas. “Cigarette?”

“This is my last one,” Cas replies, taking it from his mouth and holding it, filter-first, towards Dean. “Share it with me?”

“You’re so sweet,” Dean laughs, taking the cigarette and pulling in a lungful of smoke. He sighs it out, and tastes...clove? “You smoke clove cigarettes?”

“Nobody else likes them,” Cas says, sounding facetiously wounded, “so nobody steals them.”

“You’re such a beatnik,” a voice cuts in from outside the tent, a familiar, Louisiana drawl.

“Get out, LaFitte,” Cas jeers harmlessly, climbing over Dean, who’s not far behind.

“I ain’t in, Novak,” the speaker replies. As soon as Dean claps eyes on his old friend, looking just as big and warm as ever, he’s overcome by a smile.

“Benny,” Dean grins, and reaches out to shake Benny’s hand, yanking him into a hug.

Benny laughs. “You’re actin’ like you ain’t seen me in years,” he says, “when yesterday you said you’d ring my neck if I spoke a word to ya.”

Dean chuckles a little, patting him on the back before releasing him. “You know I didn’t mean that,” he dismisses, as Benny hands him his pack.

“Yeah, yeah,” Benny brushes off, smiling.

Looking around, Dean can see their whole platoon all gathered up in the clearing, boys who’ve just cusped 18, or maybe aren’t even quite there yet, , scrawny and ill-tempered and in varied states of uniform. At their head is an older guy, balding and familiar—Dean struggles to place him, at first, but he can’t put a name to the face, so he ends up dismissing him in favour of recon.

“So, what are we doin’, exactly?”

Benny and Cas pop their shoulders in identical shrugs.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Benny replies. “I think we’re just...marchin’. Well, more like wadin’.”

“Wading is right,” Cas agrees, shaggy hair obscuring his face. Dean shudders to think how long it’s been since he’s washed it. “If I see another rice paddy, I’m gonna lose my fucking head.”

“Looks like you’re in trouble, then, man,” Dean laughs, looking between the trees to a swampy and massive clearing with what were clearly once straight lines of growing rice.

“I’m always in trouble,” Cas huffs, shouldering his bag.

He extends a hand for Dean’s cigarette—he forgot he was still holding it, frankly—and Dean complies, passing it back. Cas takes a long drag and offers it to Benny with a questioning grunt.

“Don’t wanna bum your last smoke,” Benny dismisses. “Anyways, you know I don’t dig that clove bullshit.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude,” Cas agrees harmlessly as the group starts to trudge off behind the balding older guy.

Plunged in the middle of all this, Dean’s keenly aware of how little these guys know about their situation. About why they’re there, or what they’re supposed to do—they’re just kids, young kids. Cas can’t be older than 21, by the looks of him, and the oldest guy in the rest of the platoon looks maybe 30, 35.

They’re as clueless as Dean. Probably even moreso—at least Dean knows how to hold a gun, how to reload, how to fire. Some of these guys seem out of place in boots and fatigues.

“Hey,” Cas says, jarring Dean, “buck up, baby. How does a round of poker when we make camp sound, huh? And I still owe you after what we talked about last night.”

“How does that even work?” Benny asks as they trudge through the jungle, their journey kicking off in earnest now, the men falling into the semblance of a line. “Knockin’ boots in a tent?”

“You should know,” Cas smirks, “been passed out next to us enough times.” He offers Dean the cigarette; the cherry glows red-orange in the dawn light. “Dean?”

“I’m good for now, angel. Polish it off for me.”

Cas raises an eyebrow, taking a final pull from his cigarette before extinguishing it underfoot. “Angel?”

Dean shrugs. “Ain’t I ever called you that before?”

“Never,” Cas replies, linking a few dirty, scar-laden, thin fingers with Dean’s, giving him a gummy grin. It makes Dean’s stomach hurt.

“Well, it’s true. You’re an angel to me.” They look at each other for a long minute, Dean from under the brim of a flak helmet Benny must’ve slapped on his head when he wasn’t paying attention, Cas from under his lanky, twisting hair.

“Boo,” Benny heckles, snapping the tension before it gets too heavy, before it slows them down. “Get off the stage. Hurry up, lovebirds, we gotta get on the other side of that paddy.”

~*~

The view of the paddy Dean got earlier didn’t hardly do it’s size justice.

The trek is as arduous, muddy, wet, and sticky-hot as the others made it sound. The air is thick with bugs, and they’re told to stay low, in case “the enemy” is around. The hairs on Dean’s neck prickle with every noise, even more than they do during a hunt. He can’t help but be reminded how scared these kids are, every time one gets sucked into the mud and starts screaming bloody murder.

Cas and Benny help pop the bubbles of tension that arise in their little cluster, joking and teasing, Dean pitching in with his tragedy-honed gallows humour whenever there’s a lull.

The end of the paddy is an incredible relief. They step out, sopping and heavy, so exhausted by the resistance of the water that walking on dry ground feels like flying. They walk for the rest of the day, sometimes pausing in one clearing or another. The only other person they bump into, friend or enemy or otherwise, is a kid, barefoot and running through the jungle alone.

“We should help him,” Cas says, watching him run off, dirty and starving.

“No time,” Benny replies, sadly. “Anyways, you know the bossman would have our ass if he knew we were walkin’ around with some little foreign dirtbag? He’d say he was a fuckin’ spy, probably off ‘im right in front of all of us.” They watched him disappear into the trees. “He’s probably safer like this.”

Cas huffs, shoving a hand through his hair. “I hate this fucking place,” he says. “I hate the draft. I hate LBJ.”

Dean pauses, taking Cas’ hand. “Angel,” he coaxes, and Cas looks over to him, taking a plunge he hasn’t yet taken, not in any other universe. “If you hadn’t come out here, you wouldn’t have met my dumb ass, huh?”

“I don’t know how I feel about that,”  Cas teases, but Dean knows he’s agreeing.

They make camp a few hours later, in a new clearing, putting up tents and eat stale bread for dinner. Once they’re fed as well as they can be, Cas reveals a blessedly dry deck of cards from his pack. Benny and Dean and Cas and a couple other guys gather around, and play by the light of a tiny fire, betting with cigarettes and stamps and even a few borderline-bad pieces of fruit.

As players lose their interest, or their patience, or their energy, they shuffle off, even Benny getting tired and bedding down for the night until it’s just Dean and Cas remaining.

“It’s just us,”  Cas observes, sitting cross-legged against a tree.

“It sure is,” Dean agrees, smirking at him. In this world, the threat of violence looms larger than in the last—there’s a war on, after all—but as he crowds up to Cas in the oppressive heat of the night, he can’t help but feel at peace.

“I love you,” he says again.

“You’re such a dork,” Cas replies. “Kiss me.”

“You’ll kiss a dork?”

“I’ll kiss my boyfriend, if I feel like it.”

And he does, against the tree, in the dark, with Dean’s face bracketed in his hands.

“I love you, too.”

“There it is,” Dean laughs. “I had that one coming.”

“As I recall, you’ve got something else coming, too.” They keep their voices low, what with the snoring platoon around them, but the grin that Dean flashes Cas is louder than any sound.

“I think you said something about that,” Dean agrees.

Cas smiles back at him, and takes his face in his hands again, goading him into his lap. “You’re beautiful,” he says as Dean straddles him. “Even under all this mud.”

“I hear it’s good for your skin,” Dean nods. “Maybe that’s why I look so amazing all the time.”

“So amazing, huh?” Cas repeats, letting Dean brush through his greasy hair. “Cocky much?”

“You make me feel good,” Dean shrugs. “If I can bag you, I got a right to be cocky.”

“You haven’t bagged me yet.” Cas runs fingertips down Dean’s back, dragging at his skin through his shirt. “Just wait till we get back to the States, and you put a ring on me. We’ll be married, as far as anyone half decent is concerned.”

“Married.”

Married. It’s the most serious, most definite thing Dean’s encountered yet, in any of these worlds. His heart jumps.

“Mm-hm,” Cas hums, lifting a hand to stroke it through his hair and rest it on the back of his neck. It’s warm, heavy, a soft comfort to his fluttering stomach. Their faces are close; Cas leans in, kisses him, rubs a calloused thumb against the tightly bound muscles in his neck.

“Everyone else is in bed,” he says.

Dean gets his meaning immediately—and it’s not wishful thinking, like it is back in his reality. “Is that right?” He leans in for another kiss, his hand on Cas’ hip. “And?”

“And we’ve got some privacy.” Cas tosses his head, flicking a few unwashed strands out of his face. The next kiss is deeper, and harder, and when it’s over Dean is aware of Cas’ hands at the hem of his shirt. He helps Cas pull it off, and Cas drags his nails down Dean’s back, skin-on-skin now as Dean pulls off Cas’ shirt.

He’s done this so many times before, with different versions of Cas, but god, it never stops being amazing. Cas’ lips are soft, his skin is tan and warm, and here, his hair is long enough for Dean to weave his fingers in as he shifts in his lap.

Cas doesn’t waste much time in reaching for the closure on Dean’s pants—a few minutes into kissing, and he’s already unbuttoning them, sliding his hand inside. They’re both grimey from a day of walking through mud and jungle, but that’s not on either of their minds. Cas’ hand is too warm and tight wrapped around Dean for him to care about the dirt under his nails or the grease and sweat in his hair.

Cas’ bare back is against the tree they’re leaning on, and when Dean starts moving, rocking up into his fist and grinding down on his dick through their fatigues, it scratches and scrapes against the bark. Dean’s sure that a little friction burn will be worth it.

He reaches for Cas’ pants, hands fumbling between them as Cas keeps stroking him. The air is sticky and hot and thick around them, and not just because they’re in a jungle in Vietnam—the two of them breathing on each other, bare skin touching bare skin, all of it adds up to conditions that would be oppressively uncomfortable if Dean had the wherewithal to notice.

Once Cas’ pants are undone, though, Dean’s mind is embarrassingly one-track. For a while, it’s just the two of them with their hands around each other, kissing and rocking and panting. Even with where, and when, they are, in the dead of night, in a foreign country, in a war zone, things move slow, the tension that was wrapped around them earlier long since dissipated.

“Dean,” Cas sighs, his hand slowing down as his face tilts up to Dean’s. “Dean, let me fuck you.”

Dean’s stomach seizes. _God, yeah_. The idea of it, of finally taking that step with Cas, absolutely thrills him—and strangest of all, he doesn’t feel a shred of anxiety, or concern. He’s nothing but eager, and Cas can see that on his face, because he laughs breathlessly, wrapping his hands around Dean’s hips.

“It hasn’t even been 48 hours since last time,” he teases, kissing his neck.

It hasn’t even been 48 hours. Dean is the luckiest man alive.

“What—I mean, how,” Dean asks, half-stuttering, because as eager as he is, he wants to make it absolutely perfect. Or, as close as one can get in the jungles of wartime Vietnam.

Cas shrugs, because apparently they do this almost constantly. “We’ve got options,” he says coyly. “Missionary, of course, or I could put you on your chest, or you could ride me, or—”

“The last one.” Dean says, cutting him off. “I wanna ride you.” That earns him another teasing laugh.

“I should’ve known,” Cas purrs, raising two fingers to Dean’s mouth. Dean’s jaw drops, literally, and Cas slides those two fingers past his lips and settles them on his tongue. Reflexively, Dean sucks, and Cas watches, absolutely enamored, his other hand palming a handful of Dean’s ass.

Dean has to admit, he gets off on Cas staring at him like this. In a way, he always has—even before this, back in their world, when Cas would eye him, it was absolutely infatuating. He had to hide himself from the waist down to save face too many times to count.

Lost in his thoughts, Dean can feel Cas pull his fingers from his mouth, strings of saliva connecting them to Dean’s flushed lips.

“C’mere,” Cas coaxes, as if they could get any closer. Still, Dean shuffles towards him on his knees until they’re chest to chest, and Cas reaches around him and strokes the two thick fingers over his flexing hole.

Dean can’t help but gasp at the touch—goddamn, no matter how many times this happens, it always feels like the first. Cas eases his fingers in, slow, the stretch stinging just a little as he works them up to the first knuckle. He gives a few shallow pumps, then eases in further, up to the second. Dean rocks back on them, whining in his throat, Cas with his head leant against the tree all but ogling him.

There are no words, nothing other than pants and sighs, as if language would spoil the moment. Cas works his fingers all the way in, then adds another, letting Dean squirm on them for a few almost-too-long moments.

“Ready?” Cas asks, stroking the pads of his fingers almost tenderly inside of him. And no wonder, really, with all that talk of marriage earlier. That makes it even better, too, (although Dean may never admit it) knowing that he has Cas locked down.

“Ready,” Dean nods, and surges forward to kiss him as Cas pulls his fingers out. There’s a few moments, seconds, really, although they feel like a millennia, before Cas’ dick presses against his hole.

It’s heaven, absolute heaven. Cas is thick and warm, and Dean’s heart jackrabbits against his chest for more reasons than he’d like to mention. He sinks down, slowly, and it only gets better, even though the pleasure is preceded and chased by a dull ache. Dean tips his head back, and a noise like that of a wounded animal gets punched out of him. His eyes slide closed, and he starts moving in earnest, wrapping a hand around Cas’ shoulder to leverage himself.

It feels like too soon that Dean’s breaths come faster, harder. Cas bucks his hips up against him, hard enough that Dean feels like he’ll end up with bruises along the backs of his thighs. Cas nuzzles into his neck, biting down, and Dean’s stomach becomes a bundle of tightly tied knots, ready to come undone at a moment’s notice. Cas sucks his neck again, bringing on what Dean’s sure will be a sore-to-the-touch pink hickey in under an hour, and Dean feels that knot tighten even further.

He rocks and writhes and squirms, riding out the knot in his stomach until all of a sudden, as Cas thrusts up into him, the knot pulls tight, then falls apart, and Dean splashes their chests with his release.

Cas isn’t far behind—for the first time ever, Dean feels him empty into him, both of them shuddering through aftershocks.

“Cas,” Dean sighs, tucking his head into Cas’ neck. Cas chuckles softly, stroking his hair.

“Yeah, I know, Dean. Me, too.”

“I love you.” Cas thunks his head contently back into the tree, hair falling back across Dean’s face.

“Yeah, I know, Dean,” Cas says again. “Me, too.”

~*~

“Hey, soldier.” Cas’ voice is soft and low, a tonic to Dean’s aching back as he comes to. “Get off, Dean, come on.” Dean huffs and shifts, burying himself further into Cas’ neck.

“I already did,” he mumbles. Cas rolls his eyes, affectionate.

“Funny guy. Hop off before everyone wakes up, come on. Or maybe you want everyone to get an eyeful?” Another grumpy noise escapes Dean, but he straightens up, slowly, and pulls on his pants, rubbing at the dried come on his chest

“Whatever,” Dean dismisses. “Lemme help you up.” He helps Cas to his feet, watching his boyfriend (fiance?) shimmy into his pants and push back his hair

“What a gentleman,” Cas grins, kissing the back of his hand.

When they return to camp, the others are just waking up. Dean’s relieved Cas had the forethought to wake him early; he doesn’t need these guys seeing him splattered with jizz and in the nude.

Once the camp is packed up, they march out. Cas prods at him as they go—”You sore?” he kids. “Feeling alright, cowboy?” Dean just rolls his eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. What a loser. (He’s so in love).

It’s when they’re passing through a grove of trees and vines that the group stalls. The Sargent raises a hand, and the men pause, jostling and looking around like a group of paranoid addicts.  

One of them, some young guy near the front, stops short, like he hears a noise. As soon as Dean listens, he hears it, a sound like a twig snapping. The kid jumps, pulls his gun, and fires into the thicket where the noise came from. Before the gunshot even finishes ringing, though, the kid who fired it catches a bullet of his own.

Someone in the cluster of soldiers screams, and all hell breaks loose. Dean tries to track what’s happening, but he’s not used to fighting like this, against invisible enemies, with terrified, panicked allies. The first thing he does is snag Cas by the arm, and yank him to the ground, where Benny, on his elbows and stomach, is already hidden.

“Cas—” Dean starts, but Benny snaps at him before he can get anything else out.

“Shuddup. We gotta move.”

They do, then, all three of them, army-crawling through the jungle. Around them, bodies fall--theirs, those of their enemies, those of people who can’t be identified either way. Dean’s been splattered with blood before, he’s watched people he cares about die, he’s watched himself die, but this is different. These people are kids. Few are even here by choice. The hunters Dean works with are trained, at least a little, but these guys have no sense of what they’re doing. They’re just high schoolers with guns, and even though that’s basically who he was, it’s different here. His stomach feels like it’s being stepped on, and not just because of all the feet pounding around him as soldiers and innocents rush for safety.

Benny leads the way through the underbrush, the sound of bullets and feet and screaming enshrouding them like a heavy, thick blanket that blocks out the light.

“We just have to get out of this stretch,” Benny assures earnestly, not missing a beat of his hurried army crawl. “We’ll be clear soon.”

“We need to know where we are,” Cas argues. “I’m gonna look around.”

“Cas—” Dean replies, trying to tug him back down. “Baby, wait, you need—”

But Cas is already standing up, he’s already on his knees, then on his feet, then there’s a snap of a gunshot—and he’s back on the ground.

Dean should’ve known.

He hurries to where Cas’ body fell, on his hands and knees now, and fuck if he gets spotted, and fuck him for forgetting what this is for a split second. He scoops his boyfriend into his arms, his shirtlessness revealing just how bad his wound is, right through his stomach—there’s no way he’ll make it.

“Cas, Cas,” Dean coaxes, stroking his hair, dragging his body as out of the fray as he could get it, which wasn’t much at all. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.” Cas stares up at him, still alive, and maybe that’s what made it hurt so fucking much. He’d never had to watch him die before, in any of these worlds so far. He never had to see his eyes glaze.

It’s worse than he ever imagined.

“I know,” Cas agrees, nodding weakly, coughing into the air, the flecks of his blood that he coughs up falling back onto his pale face. “I love you, Dean.”

Dean’s breath seizes, like it did the first time any Cas told him that, back in the Croatoan world.

“I love you, Cas.”

Cas coughs again, his eyes turning glassy, and breathes a shallow laugh. “You bagged me after all, soldier.”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah. I did,” Dean nods, summoning up a shattered smile for Cas. A bullet zings towards him, and it catches his shoulder.

He doesn’t even register the pain.

Dean squeezes Cas’ hand, one last time, and then he’s gone. He hears Benny yell, _Get down, Winchester,_ and when he looks up for a bare moment he sees her again, the witch, with a red gingham bandana tied around her arm and a handful of powder.

He holds Cas close.

He closes his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

“We’ve been here for hours, Cas,” Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes. “We need to keep moving. They aren’t gonna get new books in overnight.” He leaned forward, propping his bony elbows on the massive library table strewn with open books, print-outs of old newspapers, and his laptop, which Cas glared at through tired, narrowed eyes.

“We cannot stop looking,” the angel insisted. “I can hear him. He still calls me.”

Sam dragged in a deep breath. “There’s nothing else for us to learn here,” he said sincerely. “I want Dean back as much as you do, Cas, but we’ve read everything this library’s got on witches, or curses, or comas, and we’re no better off than we were seven hours, or 15 minutes, ago.” He stood up, closing his laptop and earning an angry look from Cas. “We’ll drive a few hours and get to the next town, start looking again there. I’m not giving up, man, but this, here—it’s a waste of our time.”

Castiel huffed, dropping his face to his hands. “Is this what human exhaustion feels like?” he asked, his voice muffled behind his palms.

Sam chuckled dryly. “No fun, is it?”

“That’s underselling it.” He lifted his head, looking out at the array of open books, and stood. “I suppose you’re correct. We should keep moving, I suppose.” He closed the books, stacking them in orderly piles by size. “Has anyone gotten back to you? Bobby, any of your network?”

Sam’s mouth made a hard line in his face. “Not with anything helpful. Bobby’s up to his ass in lore, but he hasn’t found anything useful yet. All he’s saying is that maybe the witch built in some kinda failsafe—a special cure, specific to Dean’s curse. But according to Bobby, it could be anything, from a chant to a tonic to taking him to some certain place…” He shook his head. “We’ll crack this eventually, sure, but it’s looking like it’s gonna take a while.”

Castiel set his jaw, nodding stiffly. “We can’t abandon him,” he agreed, staunch as ever. “I...listening to him call for me is unbearable. I can only imagine what he must be experiencing.” His eyes were distant, his expression disconcerting enough for Sam to set a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, Cas. We’ll get him back, huh?”

Castiel cleared his throat, nodding. “Yes, Sam. We will.”

~*~

Dean wakes up in a motel bed, screaming.

“Woah, buddy,” someone says, from a corner. “You okay?”

Dean lurches up, panting. Over by the coffee maker stands Sam, in a flannel and some old jeans. The sight of him, so familiar, looking the way he always does, soothes the part of Dean that’s still a scared kid, that always will be.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, rubbing an eye. “Nasty dream, that’s all. You seen Cas?” Sam chuckles, bringing his brother a coffee.

“ _Y_ _ou_ should know where he is,” he teases. “He’s _your_ boyfriend.”

Even though his relationship with Cas is nothing new, Dean smiles. The world always ends the same way, sure, but at least he gets Cas in his life—if only for a day, or less.

“Yeah, he is,” he agrees, pleased as he sips his coffee. Sam rolls his eyes.

“You’re so gross.”

“Bite me, Sammy,” Dean grumbles, climbing out of the bed. The motel room is cowboy themed, for some goddamn reason, with little cowboys on broncos on the wallpaper and ten gallon hats on the bedspreads. “Seriously, is he around?”

“He just went to get breakfast,” Sam replies, sitting on the other bed. Dean sips his coffee from the little paper cup—--it’s watery, and bitter, and it tastes exactly like it always does. “We leave after we eat, we have to make Wylie by morning.”

“Wylie?” Dean asks. “What’s in Wylie?”

“The next hunt, genius,” Sam replies. “Did you come down with amnesia in your sleep, or what?”

“Did you come down with a bitchfit?” Dean reaches over, clicking on a table lamp. “Or what?”

“Really mature, Dean.”

Dean has to admit—it’s nice, being in a cheeseball, themed motel room with his brother and his shitty coffee, waiting for his angelic boyfriend to come back. He never thought he’d say that, but it’s damn true.

When the door swings opened, he remembers exactly why it’s so nice. There’s Cas, holding greasy Krystal bags, in his full tan trenchcoated glory.

“Good morning, Sam, Dean,” he greets, smiling. He hands Sam one bag, then brings another to the bed where Dean sits.

“Morning, Cas,” Sam smiles. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Of course. I hope I remembered all the orders properly.”

“I’m sure you did great, baby,” Dean agrees, like pet names for Cas is a language he was born to speak. “I’m hungry enough, I’d eat anything you put in front ‘a me.”

“That’s certainly reassuring,” Cas agrees, half-teasing as Dean tucks into his bag of breakfast, starting with his palm-sized golden brown hashbrown. As if life wasn’t already good enough. “I’m going to take a shower,” he goes on, standing. “Enjoy your food, darling.”

“I will,” Dean nods, tilting his head up and back. Cas leans down to kiss him, and as soon as their lips touch, his body feels like he’s falling backwards, like there’s air rushing around him, and suddenly he’s somewhere else.

~*~

When Dean opens his eyes, he finds that that “somewhere” is strangely like the place he last found himself—a motel room, again, although this one doesn’t have the same glaring Midwest schtick. It’s green and blue, reminiscent of the 1960s, with big yellow flowers splashed up on the walls.

He peels himself off of the crinkly, grimey motel duvet cover as he rubs at his temples. He’s been in a thousand and one motel rooms, but here, something feels different. He gets this weird, dizzy sensation, like waking up in the middle of a dream--caught between two strange places.

“Dean,” says a voice. A familiar voice. Cas’ voice. “Oh, Dean.” The angel hurries over, extending a hand to touch Dean’s forehead. “Are you okay? How do you feel? What happened?”

“Just kinda sore,” Dean dismisses, letting Cas press two fingers to his forehead, feeling that surge of energy—maybe from Cas’ mojo, or maybe just from his touch. “What...what the fuck happened? Where are we?”

“We’re in Wiley. In Texas,” Cas says, withdrawing his fingers. He’s still smiling, faintly, drinking in the sight of Dean with a slow, savouring fondness. “You were cursed, Dean. By a witch. I’m not sure what you were...experiencing, but to those of us out here, to your brother and I, it looked like a coma. Sam left for the library, to do more research, we’ve been looking for a cure for days—I’m so glad you’re okay again, Dean. I’m so glad.” Cas pulls him up, and into a hug, and Dean hugs him back, not quite sure what to think. Is this finally real? Did he make it back?

“What cured me?” Dean asks, pulling away from him reluctantly. “Did you kill her? What happened?”

“Your brother and I killed her days ago,” Cas nods. “But it was fruitless. The curse persisted, it wasn’t until I kissed you, a few moments ago, that you seemed to be revived. Something in the contact—”

“You kissed me? What—I mean—where?”

Cas flushes, turning his head away.

“I—yes. On the forehead. I’m not sure why it worked—Sam and I carried you from motel room to car and back thousands of times, but perhaps the kiss, the contact it established…”

Dumbfounded, Dean gapes.

“What gave you that bright idea?” he asks plainly. Cas rubs his neck, bashful.

“Wishful thinking, initially, I suppose,” he admits guiltily. “I wanted—so badly to—always, before—and then I thought you were gone, and I—” Dean lets out a soft, amazed laugh.

“I’m gonna ignore the creepy factor on that for a minute,” he jokes, and Cas cracks the smallest smile, sitting on the edge of the bed by Dean’s side. “What do you mean? Always? Did you—”

“What did you see while you were gone?” Cas asks, yanking the conversation away from Dean’s question. Dean can’t say he blames him.

“...You,” Dean admits. “When the witch confronted me, I told her—I said I didn’t love you.” Now it’s his turn to look away guiltily. “She decided it was her job to prove me wrong.”

“How do you mean?” Cas asks slowly, but Dean shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna think about it right now,” he says. “Maybe later. I just—I just wanna know what you meant, a second ago. About why you kissed me.” Cas’ eyes flick away.

“I’ve wanted to for some time,” he admits. “I...am...Dean. I love you. When you were gone, I couldn’t stand it, ever since I laid a hand on you in Hell, I’ve been infatuated with your soul, every part of you is miraculous—” Dean can feel the colour rising into his face, and he leans forward, in a way that feels so new and yet so natural, and takes Cas’ cheek in one hand.

“Me, too.” He says it softly, like he’s trying not to wake someone up from a dream. “I love you, too, Cas.”

The kiss, the real kiss, is the best one yet. It’s better than any of the firsts, or any of the lasts, or any of the in betweens, in any of the worlds they’ve visited. It’s so sincere, it makes Dean’s stomach ache in the most beautiful of ways.

~*~

For weeks, reality doesn’t feel real. Ever since the confession, they’ve been talking, working things out. Dean has been trying to be more honest with Cas, more emotionally transparent. They’ve been kissing, a lot, and cuddling an embarrassing amount, and the words “I love you” pass between them with increasing regularity.

Part of Dean keeps expecting some tragedy to strike, something to separate them, the red-gingham-wearing bitch to return and hurt him one more time. But nothing does. Their lives are completely normal. They hunt, they sleep, they eat, they drive, with no disasters bigger than the ones they usually face to steal Cas and Dean from one another.

Sam is elated when he finds out, which he does as soon as he returns from researching the night Dean wakes up. Cas calls him, and says it’s okay, come home, Dean’s awake. At first, he keeps a polite distance, but after two nights of walking in on them in the midst of a long-awaited makeout session, the joking and teasing hit. One night, after a particularly gruelling hunt, they play cards on the floor of the motel room, and Sam makes crack after crack about romance and boyfriends and getting a room and angel/human relationships. Dean and Cas laugh it off, or sometimes dish it back, depending on the day.

Eventually, they make it to the bunker, and Dean sets up shop in the kitchen determined to work out his mom’s pancake recipe. It takes him a few tries, but once he gets it right, they take the spoils into the living room and watch Saturday morning cartoons. It’s absolutely perfect.

Around five months in, Dean wakes to the sound of his boyfriend, singing an old Cat Stevens song.

“What’s that one called, Cas?” he asks, turning over in bed to face him (he always is the little spoon, after all).

“Moonshadow, I believe,” the angel answers. “I found the vinyl of it not long ago. It’s a beautiful song, don’t you think?” Dean beams.

“I love it, baby,” he says. “I love you.”

Cas’ face relaxes into a smooth, easy smile, and the next words out of his mouth make all of the death and loss and pain worth it.

“I love you, too, Dean.”


End file.
